BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 


ERNEST  C.  PEIXOTTO 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/byitalianseasOOpeixiala 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 


Ragiisa  from  a  Suburb  of  Ploce 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 


BY 


ERNEST   C.  PEIXOTTO 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


§pxillif€W%? 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

MCMVI 


Copynght  1908,  by 
Charles  Scribker's  Sons 

Published,  October,  1906. 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS 


TO  MY  WIFE 


CONTENTS 

THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA—  f*ok 

I.  The  Riviera  di  Fonente 3 

II.  Genoa        12 

III.  The  Riviera  di  Levante 28 

A  SUMMER  IN  A  SANDOLO 45 

DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST— 

I.  FiuME   TO    Metkovich 65 

II.    MOSTAR 95 

III.  Ragusa  and  Cattaro 106 

CATTARO  TO  NAPLES— A  TRANSITION     ...  121 

GIUSEPPE'S   CHRISTMAS 131 

SICILY— 

I.  Easter  Tide 155 

II.  Caretti  and  Marionetti 177 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 193 

IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 213 


Vll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Ragusa  from  the  Suburb  of  Ploce Frontispiece 

PACE 

A  Villa  with  its  Gay  Approach 5 

The  Wayside  Shrine 9 

A  Quaint  Arcaded  Market-square facing  10 

A  Ligurian  Fisherman facing  12 

Court  of  the  Palazzo  dell'  Universita,  Genoa      .       facing  14 

A  Lantern 19 

Fountain  in  the  Palazzo  Podesta 21 

Chimney-piece  of  the  Sala  di   Rarita  Romane^  Palazzo 

Doria         facing  22 

Garden  of  the  Palazzo  Doria 25 

The  Church  Door,  Nervi 29 

Cypresses  by  the  Sea 30 

Garlic  and  Onions facing  SO 

Rapallo 32 

A  Group  of  Lacemakers 34 

A  HiU-side  Chapel 36 

A  Religious  Procession 40 

San  Fruttuoso 43 

Painted  Sails  Glowing  with  Suns  and  Crosses     ....  49 

A  Campiello  near  San  Rocco,  Venice 51 

The  Arsenal  Gate 52 

A  Chioggia  Canal 54 

ix 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACK 


In  Less  Frequented  Canals 56 

A  Madonna  on  a  Palace  Wall 59 

The  Broad  Lagoons 61 

Arbe — an  Island  Town 69 

The  Porta  Terra  Firma,  Zara 74 

Portico  of  Diocletian's  Palace,  Spalato     .     .     .      facing  78 
The  Old  Quay  and  South  Wall  of  Diocletian's  Palace, 

Spalato 79 

Entrance  to  the  Mausoleum,  Spalato     ....      facing  80 

The  Ulica  Zvonika,  Spalato 81 

Cathedral  Portal,  Trau 89 

Peasants  at  Makarska 91 

A  Corner  of  the  Market 97 

The  Saric   Mosque,  Mostar 99 

Each  shop  contains  a  squatting  Turk  or  two     .     .     .     .  101 

Mostar  from  the  Narenta facing  104 

In  the  Val  d'Ombla 108 

Mincetta  Tower,  Ragusa facing  108 

The    Market-place,    Ragusa 109 

The  Stradone  and  Guard-house,  Ragusa Ill 

Vestibule  of  the  Rector's  Palace,  Ragusa     .     .     ,      facing  112 

Piazza  Massari,   Bari 125 

Pace  the  fields  in  lordly  avenues 129 

A  Peddler 135 

Donna  Gracia  Filling  the  Lamps facing  136 

What  a  bustle  in  the  great  thoroughfare !     .     .     .      facing  138 

Here  is  a  Christmas  street  indeed!       ....     facing  140 

A  Donkey  Cart 141 


X 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


rAQK 


Two  zampognari  played  their  pipes 147 

There  he  saw  a  wondrous  scene facing  148 

A    Goatherd 151 

The  Cloisters  at  Monreale 156 

Pulpit,  Capella  Palatina,  Palermo 159 

Taormina facing  l60 

Fountain  of  the  Minotaur,  Taormina l6l 

Procession  on  Holy  Thursday facing  162 

The  Badia  Vecchia 164 

Perched  on  the  steep  hill-sides 169 

The  Easter  Dance facing  174 

A  Sicilian  Cart 179 

Water-carrier 181 

Pulchinella facing  186 

A  Marionette  Knight 189 

A  Sicilian  Marionette-show facing  190 

Valetta,  Malta facing  196 

A  Maltese  Fishing-smack 198 

Lady  Wearing  the  Faldetta 201 

Bedouins 217 

Mosque  of  Sidi-ben-Ziad,  Tunis facing  220 

Before  the  Great  Mosque,  Tunis facing  222 

No  noise  accompanies  the  slippered  feet 224 

Little  shops  but  six  feet  square facing  226 

A  Woman  of  Quality 229 


PREFACE 

This  book  has  been  called  "By  Italian  Seas,"  though 
to-day  several  of  the  countries  pictured  therein  are 
politically  not  part  of  Italy.  But  they  are  bound 
to  Italy  by  the  strongest  bonds.  Dalmatia,  though 
Austrian,  was  for  so  long  a  time  under  the  domina- 
tion of  Venice  that  its  art,  its  civilization,  and  even 
its  language  are  essentially  Italian.  Malta,  though 
English,  was  a  cosmopolitan  island,  like  Sicily,  be- 
longing first  to  one  power,  then  to  another,  and  to 
none  so  much  as  to  the  Knights  of  Malta,  whose  most 
powerful  auberge  was  that  of  Italy  and  Provence. 
Tunis  was  Europeanized  by  Italians,  with  whom 
the  French  protectorate  is  still  a  standing  grievance 
and  a  source  of  national  resentment. 

The  papers   contained  in  this  book  have  been 
treated  from  the  standpoint  of  a  love  of  nature. 


PREFACE 

being  but  a  record  of  the  charm  that  he  found  in 
seeking  spots  and  sensations  away  from  the  beaten 
tourist  track.  He  desires  to  express  his  keen  in- 
debtedness to  his  wife  for  the  stimulus  of  her  con- 
stant companionship,  and  for  her  happy  collabora- 
tion in  the  making  of  this  book,  four  of  whose  papers 
— "A  Sunmier  in  a  Sandolo,"  "Mostar,"  "Giuseppe's 
Christmas,"  and  "In  the  Bey's  Capital" — originally 
appeared  in  the  magazines  under  her  signature. 


3dv 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 


THE  RIVIERA  DI  PONENTE 

THOUGH  appreciated  for  some  years  by 
English  and  German  travelers,  to  Amer- 
icans the  Italian  Riviera  is  still  almost  an 
undiscovered  country.  By  the  Italian  Riviera  I  do 
not  mean  San  Remo  and  Bordighera,  for  they,  of 
course,  are  known  and  more  or  less  frequented,  but 
I  mean  the  rest  of  the  coast  down  to  Spezia,  which 
usually  remains  a  blank  to  us  as  we  speed  along  on 
the  night  express  from  Nice  to  Florence  or  Rome. 
Even  if  the  journey  is  taken  by  daylight  we  gain 
but  a  scant  idea  of  its  beauty,  for  in  the  finest  parts 
the  railroad  is  but  a  tiresome  succession  of  tunnels — 
villages  suddenly  appearing  like  phantoms  in  the 
night;  hurried  glimpses  of  houses  clustered  round  a 
pointed  belfry,  or  ranged  along  a  dazzling  pebbly 
beach;  shady  hill-slopes  and  precipices  plunging  in- 
to the  sea — only  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  darkness 

[3] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

of  a  second  tunnel.  The  little  retreats  along  this 
lovely  coast  must  be  sought  out,  for  again  from  the 
car  window  all  the  towns  look  quite  alike,  turning 
their  unprepossessing  backs  toward  the  railroad 
track,  and  hiding  their  picturesque  features  for  those 
who  would  know  them  better. 

Yet  it  is  a  country  quite  as  charming  as  the  other 
and  better  known  Riviera,  endowed  by  nature  with 
all  the  gifts  that  make  the  little  stretch  of  territory 
between  Cannes  and  Mentone  the  rendezvous  of  the 
leisure  classes  of  Europe,  and  bring  special  trains 
de  luxe  from  London,  Paris,  Vienna,  Berlin,  and 
St.  Petersburg.  There  is  the  same  beautiful  Medi- 
terranean— ^deep  blue,  crested  with  whitecaps  or 
opalescent  in  the  evening  glow;  there  are  the  same 
bold  headlands,  grown  with  pines  and  cedars,  the 
same  rill-run  valleys,  with  even  quainter  villages 
hidden  within  their  depths;  there  are  the  same  de- 
lightful walks  under  olive-trees  and  along  the  craggy 
cliffs. 

The  winter  and  spring  climate  is  even  milder  than 
that  of  Nice,  for  the  Apennines  shut  off  the  cold 
north  winds,  and  leave  the  little  towns  at  their  bases 
basking  in  a  flood  of  almost  summer  sunshine.  There 

[4] 


f  ...j.jijiil"  "'  .,uL3iii*l^»*'*^    —-nil 


A  Villa  with  its  Gay  Approach 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

is  a  little  more  rain  than  on  the  Cote-d'Azur,  but,  to 
make  amends  for  it,  no  mistral  and  no  dust. 

For  those  of  us  to  whom  the  word  Riviera  is  a  syn- 
onym for  luxurious  hotels,  swell  gowns,  and  well- 
appointed  carriages — what  the  French  call  "high 
life" — the  Italian  coast  will  have  a  lesser  charm.  But 
this  absence  of  luxury  and  elegance  is  but  an  added 
attraction  to  those  who  are  fond  of  the  "quiet  life." 
Nature  is  more  untrammelled,  less  encroached  upon 
at  every  step  by  pretentious  villas  and  huge  cosmo- 
politan hotels. 

From  Mentone  but  a  short  trip  takes  us  to  Bor- 
dighera,  lying  only  two  or  three  miles  beyond  the 
frontier,  and  it  is  well  worth  the  nuisance  of  passing 
the  custom-house  at  Ventimiglia  to  enjoy  the  view 
from  the  walls  of  the  old  town.  The  most  beautiful 
portion  of  the  French  Riviera  is  spread  out  before 
us  in  a  panorama  of  surpassing  loveliness.  Below, 
in  the  richly  detailed  foreground,  lies  the  new  town 
of  Bordighera — a  brilliant  array  of  hotels  and  pahn- 
gardens,  telling  bright  against  the  deep-blue  sea — 
a  blue  so  dense  that  it  puts  the  sky  itself  to  shame; 
then  the  wide  curve  of  the  shore  as  it  sweeps  past 
Ventimiglia  to  where  Mentone  lies  white  on  the  edge 

[6] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

of  the  water  at  the  foot  of  lofty  mountains.  Farther 
off  Monte  Carlo  and  Monaco  blaze  like  jewels  in  the 
sunlight;  in  the  extreme  distance  the  Cap  d'Antibes 
cuts  a  last  dim  line  against  the  horizon  where  sea 
and  sky  merge  in  a  pearly  haze.  High  above 
it  all  tower  the  snow  peaks  of  the  Maritime  Alps, 
clean  cut  in  the  clear  transparence  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean air. 

The  gardens  of  Bordighera  are  beautiful.  Palm- 
trees  flourish  in  the  greatest  profusion,  but  do  not 
equal  those  of  San  Remo  in  individual  beauty,  and 
this  for  a  peculiar  reason.  It  seems  that  when  the 
obelisk  was  being  erected  in  front  of  St.  Peter's  at 
Rome,  the  Pope  ordered  that  no  one  should  speak 
during  the  ceremony,  under  penalty  of  death.  In 
the  impressive  silence  the  creaking  of  the  hoisting- 
tackle  was  distinctly  audible,  and  it  was  seen  that 
the  tremendous  weight  was  about  to  break  the 
hawsers.  Amid  general  dismay,  one  Bresca,  a  sea- 
captain,  disobeying  all  orders,  cried  out,  "Pour  water 
on  the  ropes!"  and  a  catastrophe  was  averted.  In- 
stead of  being  punished  for  his  disobedience,  he  ob- 
tained as  a  reward  that  Bordighera,  his  native  town, 
should  supply  the  palm  leaves   at  Easter  to   St. 

[7] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

Peter's.  So  for  this  reason,  and  to  this  day,  the  trees 
are  bound  up  in  sacking  and  twine  that  the  leaves 
may  blanch  and  grow  straight  and  long. 

San  Remo  is  the  best  known  of  the  resorts  on  the 
Italian  Riviera.  Its  new  town  consists  of  a  group 
of  palatial  hotels  and  villas  set  in  superb  gardens^; 
a  gay  business  street  with  most  attractive  shops ;  and 
a  promenade  by  the  sea,  unhappily  marred  by  the 
proximity  of  the  railroad. 

The  old  town,  perched  high  upon  a  hill>  is  quite  the 
crookedest  old  town  that  one  would  wish  to  see — its 
streets  a  bewildering  labyrinth,  twisting,  turning, 
and  doubling  on  themselves,  and  often  so  steep  as 
to  be  laid  out  in  steps.  Dark  little  shops  are  poked 
into  every  corner.  White  screens  over  the  doors, 
tipped  to  .catch  the  light,  somewhat  lessen  the*  gloom 
within,  where  carpenters,  green-grocers,  bakers,  and 
tailors  ply  their  trades.  The  door  lintels  are  often 
of  carved  slate,  fashioned  into  the  queerest  shapes 
of  birds  and  beasts,  or  the  emblazoned  arms  of 
former  occupants.  And  high  up  on  the  hill-top, 
where  a  blade  of  grass  never  peeps  from  between  the 
close-laid  paving-stones,  the  "moo"  of  a  cow  comes 
strangely  from  behind  a  closed  door.     Grape-vines 

[8] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 


of  extraordinary  vigor  emerge  from  cracks  between 
the  cobbles,  and,  clinging  for  support  to  the  roughly 
built  walls,  climb  four  or  five  stories  without  a  leaf, 
finally  to  blossom  forth  over  a  graceful  pergola  on 
the  roof.  For  here  on  the  roof -tops  are  the  only  at- 
tempts at  garden- 
ing that  are  to  be  t^^.  ,-  a^  \-  {, . 
seen,  and  here  on  T^TV^?  V^vf^f-  ■  -  J.  • 
sultry  summer 
evenings  the  peo- 
ple come  to  inhale 
a  breath  of  fi*esh 
air  and  enjoy  a 
peep  at  their  few 
potted  geraniums 
and  carnations, 
mingled  with 
chicken  -  coops 
and  dovecotes. 

From  San, 

Remo  down  to 
Genoa  the  pic- 
turesque      coast         7 

can    only    be    ap-  The  Wayside  Shrine 

[9] 


^.^\ 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

preciated  from  the  highway — an  ideal  road  either 
for  motoring  or  driving.  From  Albenga  to  Savona 
the  gayly  colored  villages  succeed  each  other  in  rapid 
succession,  each  with  its  note  of  individual  charm — 
a  graceful  campanile,  a  quaint  arcaded  market- 
square,  a  group  of  stately  cypresses  clustered  near 
a  high  church  door,  a  villa  with  its  gay  approach  of 
stairs  and  statued  niches,  a  campo  santo  whose  ter- 
raced granite  crosses  and  white  guardian  angels 
turn  their  pale  faces  seaward ! 

And  when  the  cliffs  recede  into  more  open  plains, 
charming  vistas  meet  the  eye — valleys  shut  in  by  hill- 
sides thickly  wooded  with  pungent  pines  and  olive- 
trees;  abrupt  little  knolls  crowned  by  ancient  fort- 
resses, where  fascinating  villages  straggle  up  under 
the  protection  of  some  moated  castle  or  of  a  watch- 
tower  built  to  guard  against  the  Saracens;  high 
arched  bridges  spanning  rushing  torrents,  foaming 
over  broad,  stony  beds,  with,  far  in  the  distance, 
glimpses  of  the  snowy  crests  of  the  lofty  Apennines. 

On  this  part  of  the  coast  there  are  but  few  places 
adapted  for  a  long  stay.  A  number  of  the  pretty 
towns  are  frequented  by  the  Italians  in  summer  for 
the  sea-bathing,  but  these  spots  are  too  exposed  for 

[10] 


A  Quaint  Arcaded  Market-square 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

the  real  Riviera  season.  Alassio  and  Pegli  are  the 
only  two  practicable  for  foreigners,  the  former  being 
much  favored  by  the  English,  who  have  built  many 
villas  thereabouts,  and  in  winter  throng  the  Grand 
Hotel.  The  beach,  soft  as  a  velvet  carpet,  nearly 
two  miles  in  length,  is  one  of  the  finest  in  Italy,  even 
rivalling  the  famous  sands  at  Viareggio  and  the 
Lido. 


[11] 


II 

GENOA 

MEDITERRANEAN  ports  have  a  fascina- 
tion all  their  own.  The  blue  sky,  and  the 
water  bluer  still,  with  its  wonderful  purity 
and  depth;  the  gay  colors  of  the  smaller  craft;  the 
stevedores  in  their  bright  sashes;  the  quaint  old- 
fashioned  rigs  of  the  fishing  boats,  and  the  varied 
colors  of  the  merchandise  upon  the  docks,  constitute 
a  foreground  of  unusual  attractiveness,  quite  differ- 
ent in  key  from  the  murky  grays  and  denser  atmo- 
spheric effects  of  more  northern  seaport  towns. 

Then,  too,  nowhere  else  in  European  waters  has 
the  shipping  so  varied  a  setting.  Notre  Dame  de  la 
Garde,  perched  upon  its  hill-top,  with  its  great  spire 
pointing  like  a  finger  heavenward,  looks  down  on 
the  docks  of  Marseilles;  a  truly  medieval  pic- 
turesqueness  backs  the  wharves  at  Cette ;  Naples  has 
Vesuvius;  Palermo  the  Conca  d'Oro;  Catania  snow- 
capped Etna;  Syracuse  its  classic  background, 
while  the  ports  of  the  south  coast  teem  with  Arab  life 
and  color,  and  the  ships  carry,  as  it  were,  a  whiff  of 
these  varied  scenes  from  port  to  port,  depositing  the 

[12] 


A  Ligurian  Fisherman 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

aroma  of  the  Orient  with  the  figs  of  Smyrna  and 
the  dates  from  Tunis,  and  returning  to  the  Arab  the 
shoes  and  shirts  of  the  Occident  so  alien  to  the  re- 
mainder of  his  garb. 

No  one  who  has  looked  out  for  the  first  time  on 
Genoa's  congested  port  will  ever  forget  this  primary- 
impression — this  mingling  of  Orient  and  Occident 
along  her  busy  wharves.  Nor  will  he  forget  the 
noble  curve  of  her  broad  quays  with  their  closely- 
huddled  mass  of  shipping.  How  the  multi-colored 
steamer-funnels  shine  midst  masts  and  spars !  How 
the  switch-engines  shriek  as  they  back  and  pufF  and 
push  their  long  escorts  of  cars  up  and  down  the 
docks,  unloading  here  a  pile  of  barrels,  there  a  load 
of  boxes  or  a  mountain  of  bales!  How  animated 
the  stevedores  and  sailormen,  who,  did  one  not  know 
his  Italy,  would  seem  in  a  perpetual  quarrel,  so 
vehement  is  their  manner,  so  wild  their  gesticula- 
tions! 

To  me,  Genoa  is  always  a  city  to  linger  m,  to  a 
superlative  degree  filled  with  life  and  color.  Viewed 
from  a  boat  in  the  harbor,  it  piles  up  so  nobly 
in  its  broad  amphitheatre;  house  upon  house, 
palace  upon  palace,  garden  upon  garden;  churches, 

[13] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

spires  and  monuments  ascending  in  such  a  magni- 
ficent ensemble  that  the  eye  is  quite  delighted  with 
the  dazzling  effect  of  it  all,  then  glances  higher  still 
to  behold  the  snowy  summits  of  the  Apennines,  one 
above  another,  peeping  over  each  other's  shoulders 
as  it  were,  ranged  round  like  giants,  like  gods  eter- 
nally young  who  throw  down  glances  of  pity  at  the 
puny  work  of  human  hands. 

Nor  does  the  fascination  cease  when  one  plunges 
into  the  narrow  streets.  Walk,  for  instance,  under 
the  arcade  that  skirts  the  quay.  What  a  smell  of 
tar  and  pitch  and  the  salt  breath  of  the  sea!  Ship- 
chandlers  put  forth  rusty  iron  rings,  belaying-pins 
and  capstan  bars,  spars,  blocks  and  tackle  and  links 
of  great  mooring-chains  to  block  up  the  passage- 
ways. Seamen's  berretti  and  dread-nought  coats, 
thick,  checkered  leggings  and  crimson  sashes  flap  in 
the  draughty  doorways.  The  shops  breathe  damp 
and  mold  like  the  depths  of  an  ill-ventilated  ship 
overflowing  with  sea-biscuit  and  ship's  stores. 

The  people,  too,  are  of  the  sea-dog  type :  wrinkled, 
long-nosed,  square- jawed,  with  bushy  brows  and 
salient  blue  chins,  like  very  old  pirates  on  the  stage, 
their  sinister  expression  even  further  accentuated  by 

[14] 


Court  of  the  Palazzo  dell'  Universita,  Genoa 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

the  quaint  sort  of  Phrygian  cap  that  they  wear,  blood- 
red  in  color  and  tilted  at  the  most  rakish  angle  or 
jammed  down  to  the  eyes.  Italians  of  other  provinces 
have  always  distrusted  the  Genovesi,  and  charged 
them  with  falsehood  and  superstition.  The  Ligurian, 
they  say,  has  ever  been  known  as  a  buccaneer  and 
freebooter.  Was  not  good  Christopher  Columbus, 
born  in  the  dingy  house  under  the  shadow  of  this 
very  same  arcade,  the  nephew  of  a  pirate? 

Yet  if  you  would  see  a  sympathetic  picture,  go 
some  evening  at  twilight  to  the  tiny  square  down  by 
the  waterfront,  where  a  mariner's  Virgin,  crowned 
with  a  silver  diadem,  looks  down  from  a  niche  of 
cockle-shells,  and  there,  by  the  light  of  a  green  ship's 
lantern,  watch  the  little  knots  of  sailors  gather  to 
take  leave  of  wife  and  children  and  to  say  a  prayer 
before  they  embark  for  the  three-months'  coral  fish- 
ing off  the  coast  of  Sardinia  or  on  the  far-away 
African  main.    .    .    . 

As  you  leave  the  water-side  to  thread  the  alleys 
that  they  call  streets,  dark  and  musty  in  winter,  but 
in  summer  a  cool  retreat  from  the  sun's  hot  rays, 
what  strange  dingy  shops  you  see  and  what  curious 
wares  exposed  for  sale!     Here  are  stored  all  the 

[15] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

oddities  of  the  Genoese  kitchen:  bottled  pine-nuts 
for  flavoring  stews  and  sweets,  dead  birds  (and  for 
shame  be  it  said,  song-birds  at  that)  to  be  cooked  in 
the  polenta;  tagliatelli,  capelUni,  fine  as  hairs,  ravioli^ 
filled  with  forced  meat  and  lasagne  ruffled  like 
flounces.  Here,  too,  are  comforts  for  the  house- 
wife; the  sacks  of  pine  cones  for  lighting  fires, 
wooden  tomboli  and  bobbins  for  the  lacemakers  and 
great  shawls  of  gaily  printed  chintz  to  be  worn  on 
holidays.  Nowhere  else,  except  perhaps  in  Naples, 
have  I  seen  such  arrays  of  washing  as  in  these  side- 
streets.  Not  that  the  Genoese  are  over-cleanly.  But 
the  congested  life  of  these  tall  dwelling-houses,  com- 
bined with  the  total  absence  of  back-yards,  owing  to 
the  city's  limited  site,  make  the  air  fairly  vibrant 
with  flapping  lines  of  many-colored  garments. 

What  a  transformation  to  emerge  from  the  gloom 
of  these  characteristic  lanes  into,  for  instance,  the 
brilliancy  of  the  Piazza  Fontane  Morose !  How  the 
sun  sparkles  on  the  broad  lava  paving-stones,  on 
the  cabs  with  their  anxious  drivers  lined  in  a  row,  on 
the  lemonade  venders  under  their  parasols  and  on 
the  gaily  colored  front  of  the  Palazzo  Pallavicinil 
What  a  vista  as  the  eye  glances  up  the  Via  Garibaldi, 

[16] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

once  Via  Nuova,  and  its  double  row  of  palaces !  In- 
voluntarily one  exclaims  with  Madame  de  Stael:  "It 
must  have  been  built  for  a  Congress  of  Kings !"  In 
it,  narrow  as  it  is,  and  in  its  prolongation,  the  Via 
Nuovissima,  lived  practically  all  the  great  Genoese 
nobility:  the  Fieschi,  Grimaldi,  Balbi,  Brignole- 
Sale  and  their  multiple  connections. 

In  it  were  hatched  the  countless  plots  and  counter- 
plots between  Doge  and  anti-Doge,  Guelph  and 
Ghibelline.  And  when  the  nobles  were  finally  tired 
of  striving  to  cut  each  other's  throats,  they  strove  to 
outdo  each  other  in  the  magnitude  and  magnificence 
of  their  palaces  and  to  outshine  each  other  in  the 
luxury  of  their  living,  one  of  them,  a  Spinola,  suc- 
ceeding to  such  an  extent  that  the  Genoese  dialect 
still  retains  the  word  spinolare^  a  princely  host,  a  dis- 
penser of  costly  wines. 

Essentially  a  commercial  people,  the  Genoese, 
who  strove  for  gain  in  temporal  rather  than  intel- 
lectual things,  had  nerer  taken  an  active  part  in  the 
renaissance  of  art  in  Italy  and  they  can  claim  the 
credit  of  no  artist  of  real  distinction.  When  their 
great  prosperity  came  and  their  art  sense  first  found 
expression,  it  showed  the  faults  to  be  expected. 

[17] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

The  wealthy  nobles  selected  the  most  showy  artists 
of  the  time  to  execute  their  commissions,  caUing 
Pierino  del  Vaga  from  Rome  to  decorate  the  Pa- 
lazzo Doria,  Montorsoli  to  execute  the  stucchi  in 
San  Matteo  and  Bianco  to  border  their  court-yards 
with  his  stately  colonnades. 

But  it  was  Galeazzo  Alessi,  fresh  from  the  in- 
fluence of  Michael  Angelo,  who  left  the  strongest 
impress  upon  the  appearance  of  the  city  and  in  fif- 
teen years  gave  it  the  character  that  it  retains  to- 
day. What  Bramante  did  for  Rome,  Palladio  for 
Vicenza,  Sanmicheli  for  Verona,  Sansovino  for 
Venice,  Alessi  did  for  Genoa. 

The  fourteen  palaces  of  the  Via  Nuova  are  mostly 
by  him.  Each  palace  stands  alone,  separated  from 
its  neighbor  by  a  narrow  street  and  though,  in  their 
undisguised  pomp  and  love  of  ornament,  they  are 
open  to  the  criticism  that  applies  to  most  edifices  of 
their  period,  they  display  such  wealth  of  imagination 
and  so  stately  and  majestic  a  frontage  as  to  atone 
for  all  defects. 

Those  on  the  south  side,  the  Gambaro,  Cataldi, 
Serra  and  Rosso  are  perched  high  over  the  lower 
part  of  the  city  and  command  superb  views  of  the 

[18] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

Gulf.  Making  the  most  of  their  opportunity,  the 
architects  have  placed  the  main  apartments  on  the 
upper  floors  (regardless  of  countless 
stairs),  where  series  of  magnificent 
drawing-rooms  open  upon  broad  ter- 
races and  orangeries,  hanging  gar- 
dens, as  it  were,  perched  between  sea 
and  sky. 

The  palaces  of  the  north  side,  on 
the  contrary,  back  against  still  higher 
hill-slopes.  The  ground  floors  are 
immense  open  atria,  surrounded  by 
superb  colonnades  and  enriched  with 
stuccoes,  statues  and  painted  decoration.  The 
blank  cliff'-side  at  the  back  has  been  made  a  special 
feature  of  these  courts  and  decorated  with  every 
artifice  of  the  Renaissance:  fountains,  niches,  grot- 
toes, or  grotesque  caryatides,  quaint  fooleries  that 
give  endless  pleasure  as  one  glimpses  them  through 
the  spacious  street  portals. 

In  sumptuous  galleries  on  upper  floors  still  hang 
rich  tapestries  and  masterpieces  of  all  the  later 
Italian  schools.  There  are  the  suave  grays  of  Del 
Sarto,  the  rich  browns  of  Ribera,  the  crimsons  of  II 

[19] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

Veronese;  there  are  ceilings  painted  by  the  once 
famous  local  ai*tists,  Carlone,  Parodi,  Cambiaso,  De- 
ferrari  and  above  all  there  are  quantities  of  family 
portraits  by  Van  Dyck  who  seems  to  have  been 
specially  petted  by  the  Genoese  nobility.  Commis- 
sions must  have  flowed  in  too  fast,  however,  for  too 
many  of  these  portraits  show  a  hurried  hand  and  a 
desire  to  please  a  not  too  critical  patron,  much  as 
the  modern  French  portrait-painter  executes  his 
commissions  in  New  York  to-day. 

Many  of  these  noble  homes  are  still  occupied  by 
the  old  families;  others  have  passed  into  the  hands 
of  the  municipahty  and  have  become  cold  and  offi- 
cial, used  as  museums  wherein  to  show  Paganini's 
violin  and  fac-similes  of  Columbus's  letters,  while 
others  still  are  occupied  by  leading  banks,  great 
steamship  companies  and  big  corporations.  In  these 
latter,  it  seems  strange  indeed  to  catch  glimpses  of 
files  of  clerks  and  secretaries  seated  in  the  rooms 
where  once  the  Durazzi,  the  Cataldi  and  the  Balbi 
danced  with  ladies  magnificent  in  brocaded  bodices, 
in  Venetian  lace  or  gowns  of  green  shot  with  gold, 
as  Van  Dyck  portrays  them  in  the  galleries  up 
above. 

[20] 


Fountain  in  the  Palazzo  Podesta 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

While  on  the  subject  of  pictures,  it  would  seem  of 
interest  to  note  another  feature  of  these  Genoese 
palaces — a  feature  quite  peculiar  to  themselves:  their 
external  color  decoration.  To  be  sure,  colored  house- 
fronts  are  not  uncommon  in  Italy,  but  nowhere  else, 
that  I  know  of,  do  they  attain  the  development  and 
allure  of  these  Genoese  facades.  So  fashionable  did 
they  become  in  the  seventeenth  century  that  an  im- 
portant group  of  artists  took  up  this  work  as  a 
specialty.  Luca  Cambiaso — an  artist  of  the  Caracci 
order,  fond  of  violent  foreshortenings  and  wind- 
swept draperies — was  soon  recognized  as  the  leader 
of  this  school.  In  his  time  he  must  have  enjoyed 
a  wide  celebrity,  for  he  left  evidence  of  his  skill  on 
most  of  the  city's  important  buildings,  notably  on 
the  Palazzo  Pallavicini,  where  his  baroque  columns 
and  niches  and  distorted  but  grandiose  pagan  deities 
may  still  be  admired.  His  style  has  been  copied  even 
to  the  present  day  in  and  about  the  city  and  all  along 
the  Genoese  Riviera. 

These  dwellings  of  Liguria  and  especially  the 
larger  apartment-houses  are  for  the  most  part 
merely  huge  rectangular  boxes,  pierced  with  rows 
of  windows,  equally  spaced  and  devoid  of  all  orna- 

[22] 


Chimney-piece  of  the  Sala  di  Rarita  Romane,  Palazzo  Doria 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

merit.  But  the  tricks  of  the  house-painter's  art 
transform  them  into  veritable  palazzini.  The  base- 
ments imitate  rustica;  the  bare  window  frames  are 
adorned  with  pilasters,  corbels  and  pediments;  the 
wall  spaces  between,  display  garlands,  trophies  of 
arms,  armor  or  musical  instruments.  The  north 
sides  of  buildings,  usually  devoid  of  casements, — 
for  windows  without  sun  only  bring  dampness  into 
these  houses,  where  fires  are  unknown — are  embel- 
lished with  false  doors  and  windows  whence  hang 
gaily  colored  carpets  or  peer  painted  faces,  and 
even,  when  sufficient  space  could  be  found,  extensive 
landscapes  have  been  depicted — mountains,  palm- 
trees  and  lakes.  The  coloring  is  usually  well-chosen, 
neither  too  gray  nor  too  glaring  primary  colors,  but 
soft  shades  of  green,  violet,  garnet  or  lavender,  and 
the  decorative  eifect  of  it  all  in  this  land  of  sun- 
shine is  not  to  be  denied,  toned  and  stained  as  it  is 
by  weather  and  dampness  into  the  irridescent  har- 
mony of  ancient  tapestries  or  of  Gozzoli's  frescoes 
in  Pisa's  Campo  Santo. 

Other  houses,  more  pretentious,  display  rows  of 
figures  in  Gothic  niches,  effigies  of  Italy's  great 
men;  Cicero  elbowing  Boccaccio,  Columbus  pairing 

[23] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

off  with  Petrarch,  Galileo  and  Maechiavelli,  Dante 
and  Rossini,  but  never  omitting  the  hero  and  par- 
ticular favorite  of  all  Liguria,  Andrea  Doria. 

What  George  Washington  is  to  the  United 
States,  Andrea  Doria  is  to  the  Genoese  coast, — 
padre  delta  patria,  father  of  his  country.  Though 
his  ancestors  occupied  high  place  in  Genoa's  history, 
— it  was  Lamba  Doria  who  defeated  the  Venetians 
at  Curzola  taking  a  hundred  of  their  galleys  and 
maintaining  Genoese  supremacy  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean— it  remained  for  the  great  Andrea  to  rid  his 
country  of  all  her  foes  both  foreign  and  domestic, 
and  to  endow  her  with  a  constitution  that  lasted  for 
centuries. 

Down  in  the  dingy  Salita  di  San  Matteo  one  can 
find  a  little  square  surrounded  by  Doria  palaces 
whose  facades  are  covered  with  inscriptions  lauding 
the  virtues  and  courage  of  this  family.  In  the  little 
Gothic  church  hard  by,  Lamba  reposes  near  the  great 
Andrea,  whose  rusty  sword  hangs  above  the  high 
altar.  But  the  Genoese  republic  did  not  deem  these 
striped  palaces  adequate  to  the  renown  of  her  great- 
est son  and  she  built  him  a  palace  more  worthy  of 
his  glory  as  its  fulsome  inscription  still  records.  Pie- 

[24] 


i/1 


o 

c 

a 


!    l^- 


'\\ 

"~* 

■I  ^ 

^g~^-= 

;     \ 

^^ 

v^ 

'1 

f 

•L 

r 

BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

rino  del  Vaga's  frescoes  still  glow  upon  its  walls 
framed  with  stuccoes  by  Montorsoli.  The  great 
rooms  still  remain  their  royal  spaciousness;  the  gar- 
den, its  giant  Neptune  driving  his  chariot  sur- 
rounded by  Dorian  eagles;  the  colonnades  sleep  in 
the  sunshine,  overgrown  with  moss  and  creepers. 

Up  in  the  Sala  di  Rarita  Romane  hangs  that 
quaint  old  portrait  of  Andrea  painted  when  he  was 
ninety.  What  a  queer  old  figure  he  makes  in  his 
high-backed  chair  studded  with  brass  nails;  how 
keenly  his  eyes  glance  out  from  under  his  bushy 
brows;  how  nervously  his  lean  fingers  clutch  the 
chair-arm!  Opposite  him,  his  cat  sits  upon  a  table 
regarding  him  with  inscrutable  eye. 

The  family  is  still  one  of  the  most  important  in 
Italy.  Who  does  not  remember  the  Palazzo  Doria 
in  the  Corso — one  of  the  noblest  palaces  in  Rome — 
containing,  among  its  manifold  art  treasures,  one  of 
Velasquez's  masterpieces,  the  portrait  of  Innocent  X, 
himself  a  Pamphili-Doria.  The  Villa  Pamphili-Do- 
ria  is  one  of  the  noblest  Roman  country  seats  and 
the  same  branch  of  the  family  occupies  the  old  pa- 
lazzo  in  the  Circo  Agonale.    Adjoining  this  latter 

[26] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

palace  stands  the  Church  of  Saint  Agnes,  for  cen- 
turies the  Doria's  place  of  worship. 

Last  winter,  on  the  feast  day  of  its  patron-saint, 
I  sat  close  to  the  rail  listening  to  the  singing  of  the 
Papal  choir  which  had  come  from  St.  Peter's  espe- 
cially for  this  important  service.  But  a  few  yards 
from  me,  on  a  dais  at  the  left  of  the  high  altar,  sat 
Cardinal  Vanutelli  in  gorgeous  vestments  of  cloth 
of  gold  and  beside  him  on  a  lower  throne  a  man 
dressed  in  the  costume  of  a  guardia  nohile  of  His 
Holiness. 

What  a  picture  he  made  with  his  fine  dark  eyes 
and  pointed  beard,  with  his  white  ruff  and  sable 
cloak  and  hose,  with  cuiFs  and  jabot  of  rarest  point 
lace  and  his  long  rapier  hanging  at  his  side ! 

I  knew  him  in  an  instant ;  for  all  the  world  one  of 
Van  Dyck's  Doria  portraits  stepped  from  its  an- 
cient frame. 


[27] 


Ill 

THE  RIVIERA  DI  LEVANTE 

TO  my  mind,  the  prettiest  places  on  the  Italian 
Riviera — or,  for  that  matter,  on  either  Riviera 
— are  beyond  Genoa,  southward  on  the  Ri- 
viera di  Levante. 

Only  seven  miles  out  lies  Nervi,  one  of  the  most 
protected  spots  on  the  whole  coast;  in  fact,  so  warm, 
even  in  winter,  as  to  be  rather  enervating.  The 
vegetation  is  quite  tropical — groves  of  oranges  and 
dehcate  lemon-trees,  loquats,  camellias,  and  olean- 
ders bloom  everywhere  in  the  open  air.  Owing  to 
the  limited  site,  however,  there  is  a  paucity  of  pleas- 
ant walks,  and  a  greater  drawback  Hes  in  the  pres- 
ence of  many  invalids,  especially  Germans.  In  win- 
ter hundreds  of  the  Kaiser's  subjects  throng  the  sea 
promenade,  a  beautiful  walk  along  the  rocky  coast, 
warmed  to  summer  heat  by  the  reflection  of  the  sun 
upon  the  sea;  and  here,  even  in  January  and  Feb- 
ruary, it  is  common  to  see  ladies  in  light  tulle  gowns 
and  men  in  tennis  flannels  walking  under  the  shade 
of  gauzy  parasols. 

[28] 


The  Church  Door,  Nervi 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 


From  Nervi  to  the  promontory  of  Porto  Fino  the 
highway  follows  for  the  most  part  the  ancient  Via 
Am-elia,  a  military  road  connecting  Rome  with  her 

Spanish  possessions.  Beyond 
Sori  the  great  cliffs  of  the 
Monte  Fino  outline  them- 
selves in  their  imposing 
beauty,  sparsely  dotted  near 
the  water's  edge  with  fisher 
men's  huts — tiny  white  specks 
against  the  dark  slopes  of  the 
mountain. 

At  Recco  the  road  ascends 
for  three  miles,  until  Ruta  is 
reached,  and  looking  back,  we 
have  a  superb  view  of  the 
whole  Genoese  Riviera,  and 
of  the  Gulf  of  Genoa,  dotted 
with  steamers  and  sailing- 
craft  making  for  and  leaving  the  busy  port. 

After  threading  a  tunnel  we  descend  a  bit,  and 
the  Gulf  of  Rapallo  soon  opens  before  us.  This 
little  bay,  in  the  shape  of  a  horseshoe,  has  Porto  Fino 
at  one  end  and  Sestri  a  Levante  at  the  other.    The 

[30] 


> 

Cypresses  by  the  Sea 


Garlic  and  Onions 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

town  of  Rapallo  lies  in  the  innermost  part  of  the 
curve,  spreading  itself  a  short  distance  back  into  the 
valleys,  and  straggling  up  the  terraced  hills  that  en- 
circle it.  A  thirteenth-century  castle,  a  miniature 
Chateau  d'lf,  standing  on  a  weather-beaten  rock,  of 
which  it  seems  to  form  an  integral  part,  guards  the 
little  harbor,  and  is  connected  with  the  mainland  only 
by  a  narrow  stone  causeway.  For  centuries  the  sea 
has  washed  its  rough-laid  stones,  and  in  heavy 
weather  dashed  in  spray  almost  to  the  battlements, 
yet  the  old  fortress  stands  to-day  as  strong  as  when, 
hundreds  of  years  ago,  it  defied  the  Saracen  and  the 
proud  fleets  of  Pisa. 

The  town  is  still  a  typical  little  Italian  seaport,  for 
the  foreign  invasion  has  as  yet  not  even  revolution- 
ized its  primitive  shops,  where  seamen's  herrette, 
gay  kerchiefs,  and  bright  calicoes  monopolize  the 
tiny  show-windows.  Twice  a  week  the  market-place 
is  filled  with  a  throng,  bargaining  and  bartering  with 
much  talk  and  many  a  gesture.  Down  on  the  beach 
the  fishermen  mend  their  nets  or  stripe  their  gayly 
painted  boats,  while  wives  and  daughters  sit  in  the 
doorways  making  lace. 

A  little  removed  from  the  town  an  embryonic  gar- 

[31] 


H. — - 


ilk- -^'^  iS^si' 


%ili 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

den  has  been  laid  out,  and  around  it  has  sprung  up 
a  group  of  new  hotels,  quiet  and  comfortable,  one 
favored  by  the  English,  another  by  the  Germans, 
and  among  the  guests  there  are  always  a  number  of 
interesting  personages.  When  we  were  there  the 
Duchess  of  Cleveland  lent  the  aristocratic  note 
of  her  thin,  striking  face,  and  black  hair  combed 
down  over  her  ears;  there  was  an  Enghsh  general, 
over  sixty,  who  walked  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
rain  or  shine,  accompanied  by  his  two  sHm  slips  of 
girls,  who  seemed  to  have  rid  themselves  of  every 
ounce  of  superfluous  flesh  by  use  of  their  slender 
walking-sticks;  there  were  German  "Herr  Profes- 
sors," spectacled,  bearded,  pompous,  and  several  ar- 
tists and  army  officers  of  the  same  nation ;  while  over 
at  Santa  Margherita,  a  mile  or  two  away,  an  Aus- 
trian princess  had  taken  the  entire  Grand  Hotel,  an 
ancient  palazzo,  and  we  used  to  see  her  every  morn- 
ing— not  young,  golden-haired,  and  beautiful,  as  in 
the  fairy-tale,  but  round  of  feature  and  of  generous 
figure — driving  with  her  maid  of  honor  in  a  "sailor" 
hat,  in  a  high-swung,  old-fashioned  carriage,  drawn 
by  a  pair  of  ambling,  pudgj^  horses. 

Besides  the  charms  of  Rapallo  itself,  the  excursions 

[33] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 


-  (  ^ 


to  be  made  from  it  are  quite  unlimited.     Nine  pretty- 
valleys  can  be  followed  up  into  the-mountains — nine 
•  '         ^]k  little  valleys  each  with 

j,^- !        an  objective  feature  at 
the  end ;  a  picturesque 
old  mill ;  a  fine  double- 
I    arched  Roman  bridge ; 
a  deserted  convent ;  a 
ruined  Gothic  church, 
^  ivy-clad,  nestled  in  a 
hollow  of  the  hills. 
We  met  an  English 
.  „  clergyman — an    octo- 
: .  genarian — who       had 
known     Rapallo     for 
thirty  years  and  had 
lived  there  fifteen,  and 


A  Group  of  Lacemakers 


he  assured  us  that  he  had  not  yet  explored  all  the 
beautiful  walks  and  by-ways.  We  spent  the  winter 
there  without  having  half  exhausted  its  resources. 

One  of  our  favorite  rambles  led  out  through  the 
village,  past  a  way-side  chapel  with  a  baroque  belfry 
and  terra-cotta  cupids,  to  where  a  narrow  rock-paved 
footway  diverges  from  the  main  road.     This  path 

[34] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

leads  up  a  secluded  valley,  most  lovely  after  four 
o'clock,  when  the  late  winter  sun  throws  long  shad- 
ows down  the  narrow  defile,  and  now  and  again 
sends  a  warm  flood  of  sunshine  to  play  upon  the 
soft  green  grass  and  light  with  streaks  of  gold  the 
twisting  olive  branches.  A  rushing  mountain  stream 
speeds  over  rocky  ledges  as  over  time-worn  marble 
steps,  its  foaming  surface  playing  with  the  over- 
hanging branches,  or  swinging  in  its  haste  around 
a  moss-grown  rock,  then  calming  itself  in  a  quiet 
pool,  whose  surface  mirrors  the  long  chaste  stems 
and  tapering  fingers  of  the  maidenhair.  Deep  and 
cool  is  ever  the  retreat  of  the  maidenhair  fern,  found 
oftenest  by  the  spray  of  a  waterfall.  And  here  one 
can  lie  upon  the  flat  rocks  and  watch  the  lazy  frogs 
sunning  themselves  in  the  still  water  beneath.  A  few 
peasant  houses  dot  the  hill-sides  even  far  up  toward 
their  summits,  and  in  the  early  spring-time — ^the 
spring  does  come  so  early  in  this  favored  land — ^the 
honest  women  will  tell  you  where  to  find  the  first 
wood-violets  and  crocuses  and  jonquils. 

Besides  the  byways  there  are  the  highways.  There 
is  the  road  to  Chiavari,  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
drives  in  Italy,  along  the  edges  of  lofty  precipices 

[35] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

dropping  sheer  off  into  the  sea.    As  Zoagli  is  ap- 
proached, the  clackety-clack  of  heavy  hand-looms  is- 


-^Ur..e--^-^^' 


A  Hill-side  Chapel 


sues  from  the  little  cottages  by  the  roadside,  and  we 
learn  that  here  the  finest  silk  velvet  is  made  by  the 
peasants.    We  stop  at  one  of  these  modest  homes, 

[36] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

and  opening  the  door,  are  cheerily  greeted  by  a  neat 
little  woman,  who  bows  us  into  a  large  room  with 
whitewashed  walls  and  red-tiled  floor.  Near  the 
door  stand  a  big  four-post  bedstead,  two  or  three 
chairs,  and  farther  off  a  bureau.  The  only  orna- 
ments are  a  row  of  tintypes  over  the  mantel-piece — 
family  portraits,  mostly  of  awkward  young  soldiers 
in  uniform. 

The  half  of  the  room  opposite  the  entrance  is  en- 
tirely occupied  by  a  huge,  roughly  built  loom,  with 
its  complicated  maze  of  silken  threads  and  bobbins 
and  clumsy  stone  weights.  We  are  shown  how  the 
shuttle  is  thrown  backward  and  forward  through  the 
countless  silken  cords,  how  the  woof  is  pushed  into 
place  by  the  heavy  swinging  bar,  how  the  threads 
are  cut  over  a  brass  wire  with  an  odd-shaped  knife, 
and  then  in  a  locked  closet  below  the  loom  we  see  the 
fair  folds  of  black  silk  velvet  with  red  edging  ready 
to  be  delivered  to  the  padrone.  And  through  the  little 
square-paned  window  the  sun  streams  in  a  golden 
flood,  and  out  of  it  there  is  a  view  over  the  great 
shimmering  expanse  of  the  sea  that  any  king  might 
envy. 

Another  beautiful  road,  following  the  sea-shore, 

[37] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

sometimes  wet  by  the  breakers'  spray,  and  again 
winding  between  high  garden  walls,  leads  from  Ra- 
pallo  to  San  Michele  di  Pagana.  Here  in  the  old 
parish  church,  strangely  enough,  we  found  a  "Cru- 
cifixion" by  Van  Dyck — a  black  and  gloomy  canvas 
much  injured  by  time.  It  is  hard  to  picture  the  gay 
and  handsome  figure  of  the  Flemish  courtier,  the 
pet  of  half  the  kings  of  Europe,  housed  in  this  far- 
away Italian  town ;  yet  here  in  truth  he  stayed  when 
Genoa's  wealthy  nobles,  after  inviting  him  to  enjoy 
their  hospitality  and  paint  the  wondrous  portraits 
that  still  adorn  their  palaces,  had  driven  him  forth 
an  exile.  Here  in  little  San  Michele  he  found  a 
refuge  under  the  protection  of  the  Orero,  and  for 
them  he  painted  the  "Crucifixion,"  introducing  one 
of  the  family  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 

And  a  little  farther  along  the  same  road  we  meet 
another  figure,  who  seems  quite  as  alien  to  his  sur- 
roundings as  the  great  Dutch  painter  himself.  On 
a  bleak  and  lonely  rock  the  Convent  of  Cervara  im- 
prisoned Francis  the  Magnificent — the  splendid 
king  who  built  Blois  and  Chambord — the  mighty 
monarch,  patron  of  Italian  art,  lover  of  gayety  and 
sweet  song.    Here,  after  the  battle  under  the  walls 

[38] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

of  Pavia,  in  a  lonesome  convent  room,  a  prisoner  of 
Charles  the  Fifth,  he  waited  to  take  ship  for  Spain. 

Beyond  Cervara  the  highway  leads  to  Porto  Fino, 
and  ends  there  as  if  it  were  the  end  of  the  earth,  for 
at  an  abrupt  turning  a  scene  almost  reminiscent  of 
Egypt— a  few  low  houses,  a  tall  palm-tree,  and  a 
strange  church — completely  blocks  the  road,  whence 
a  narrow  little  stair  leads  down  and  down  between 
overhanging  house  walls  to  a  considerable  open 
space,  giving  on  a  small  harbor  and  a  bit  of  pebbly 
beach,  where  the  fishing-smacks  are  drawn  up.  All 
about  are  brightly  painted  houses,  and  above  them 
densely  wooded  hills  of  pudding-stone,  hedging  in 
this  snug  little  haven,  from  which  a  single  exit  leads 
to  the  sea. 

High  upon  one  of  the  bluffs  stands  the  Villa  Car- 
narvon, where,  a  year  before  his  accession  to  the  im- 
perial throne  of  Germany,  Frederick  William,  then 
Crown-Prince,  spent  a  winter  in  hopes  of  bettering 
his  failing  health.  And  the  fishermen  tell  you  in 
hushed  voices  that  here,  as  he  stood  on  the  porch  of 
this  same  villa,  the  dreaded  White  Lady  of  Hohen- 
zollern  rose  from  the  misty  sea  to  warn  him  of  his 
impending  death;  and  dropping  their  voices  to  a 

[39] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

whisper,  they  tell  that  even  now,  on  still,  cakn  nights, 
the  figure  of  the  well-remembered  royal  guest  walks 
the  high  terrace,  white  and  silent,  in  the  moonlight. 
He  made  many  friends  among  the  rude  folk,  and 
Porto  Fino  has  named  one  of  her  lanes  in  his 
memory. 

Early  one  morning  we  cycled  out  from  Rapallo 
to  Porto  Fino,  and  there  bargained  with  two  sturdy 
fishermen  to  row  us  out  to  San  Fruttuoso.    We  took 


A  Religious  Procession 
[40] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 

some  cold  luncheon  with  us,  and  had  been  careful  to 
choose  a  calm  day  when  the  sea  was  Hke  a  sheet  of 
glass.  A  few  strong  strokes  of  the  heavy  oars  and 
the  stout  boat  shot  round  the  end  of  the  promontory 
that  protects  Porto  Fino  from  the  open  sea.  Though 
it  was  February,  the  sun  was  dancing  on  the  water 
and  the  shade  of  a  parasol  was  very  acceptable. 

Soon  the  long  sea  front  of  the  Monte  Fino  lined 
into  view — a  stupendous  enfilade  of  precipices,  tower- 
ing out  of  the  water  like  the  huge  round  buttresses 
of  some  titanic  castle.  Not  a  spare  ledge  on  which 
to  set  foot,  not  a  bit  of  soil  lodged  in  a  chink  where 
a  shrub  or  tree  could  cling,  one  column  succeeding 
another  with  almost  architectural  precision,  eternally 
defying  the  force  of  the  sea. 

For  an  hour  we  skirted  these  frowning  cliffs,  un- 
til suddenly,  as  if  by  magic,  the  rocky  walls  parted 
and  disclosed  a  tiny  bay  surrounded  by  mountains, 
with,  at  its  farthermost  extremity,  a  bit  of  beach. 
There,  straddling  on  its  wide  arches,  whose  pillars 
dipped  their  feet  into  the  very  sea  itself,  stands  the 
old  Benedictine  monastery  of  San  Fruttuoso,  cut- 
ting marble-white  against  the  rocky  hill-side,  its 
ghostly  double  mirrored  in  the  still  depths  beneath. 

[41] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

Across  its  plain  fa9ade  the  rich  brown  fishing-nets 
are  spread  to  dry,  and  under  its  sheltering  arches  a 
few  old  boats  are  drawn  up  on  the  sand.  A  curious 
maze  of  passages  and  arches,  rocky  steps  and  steep 
inclines,  leads  from  its  bare  old  church  to  its  dingy 
cloistered  court,  and  in  its  very  bowels  to  the  tombs 
of  the  Doria,  mouldering  and  dank.  Since  the 
twelfth  century  the  mortal  remains  of  Genoa's  great- 
est house  have  been  brought  to  this  place  for  burial 
— brought  by  sea  in  impressive  state,  on  galleons 
hung  with  black  and  silver — carried  to  their  final 
resting-place  on  the  element  whence  their  laurels 
grew,  and  on  which  their  greatness  was  founded. 
And  here,  damp  and  lonely,  the  ancient  Gothic 
tombs,  ribbed  in  marble,  black  and  white,  moulder 
in  the  depths  of  this  deserted  convent,  watched  over 
and  cared  for  only  by  a  slovenly  attendant,  who  for 
a  few  soldi  turns  the  rusty  key  in  the  squeaky  lock 
that  we  may  read  the  proud  boasts  on  the  half -oblit- 
erated inscriptions.  Above,  on  an  eminence,  stands 
a  solitary  watch-tower,  on  whose  battered  front  the 
great  spread-eagle  of  the  Doria  can  still  be  traced. 
Out  in  the  sunshine,  over  the  dancing  sea,  we  ate 
our  luncheon  at  a  httle  trattoria^  where  bread  and 

[42] 


THE  ITALIAN  RIVIERA 


wine  and  sausage  can  be  procured,  and  at  about  two, 
as  the  wind  had  sprung  up,  we  started  homeward. 


-^^^JT^Sfe-^e^s^^-T--^-  -#-_  ^^^niii^-.,--^-,^-,^^^,.^ 


San  Fruttuoso 

And  it  was  well  for  us  that  we  did  so,  for  soon  the 
breeze  freshened,  whitecaps  flecked  the  sea,  and  our 
two  big  boatmen  bent  low  on  their  oars,  with  many 
a  quick  glance  over  their  shoulders  toward  the 
punta,  where  the  fishing-smacks  were  hurrying 
shoreward,  tacking  close  up  to  the  wind. 

Finally,  hugging  the  cliffs,  we  neared  the  cape, 

[43] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

where  the  sea  was  now  boihng  in  Httle  eddies. 
The  four  strong  arms  pulled  with  a  will,  but  little 
progress  did  we  make.  Twice  the  ropes  that  bound 
the  oars  to  the  rough  pins  snapped  short,  and  we  lost 
the  seaway  we  had  gained.  The  wind  was  now  a 
gale,  and  full  against  us,  and  the  spray  salted  our 
hps  at  every  breaker.  For  some  time  it  looked  as  if 
we  must  be  dashed  upon  the  rocks,  or  at  least  must 
put  back,  but  finally,  and  happily  for  us  (for  a  night 
at  San  Fruttuoso  was  not  a  cheerful  prospect) ,  we 
rounded  the  point  and  swung  into  the  little  bay  of 
Porto  Fino.  On  landing  at  the  hotel  we  found  a 
blazing  fire  of  pine  cones  quickly  kindled  in  the 
open  chimney,  and  madame  busily  mixing  a  grog 
for  us  as  we  dried  our  clothes  before  the  spluttering 
flames.  The  little  touch  of  danger  had  certainly 
added  a  charm  to  the  whole  excursion. 


[44] 


A  SUMMER  IN  A  SANDOLO 


A  SUMMER  IN  A  SANDOLO 

WE  were  living  with  two  Italian  ladies  in 
a  cinque-cento  palace  facing  the  Giudecca 
Canal. 

From  our  balcony,  ruddy  with  scarlet  geraniums 
and  shaded  by  an  orange-colored  awning,  we 
watched  the  coming  and  going  of  many  craft — 
majestic  steamers  from  the  Orient;  puffing  military 
tugs  towing  barges  of  soldiers ;  fishing-smacks  from 
Chioggia,  their  painted  sails  glowing  with  suns  and 
crosses;  clumsy  tortoiselike  freight-boats  shining 
with  tar ;  and  now  and  then  a  big  ship  under  a  tower- 
ing spread  of  canvas,  slowly  drifting  to  an  anchor- 
age. Among  these  heavier  vessels  glided  barcas  and 
sable  gondolas.  And  suddenly,  skimming  the  water 
like  a  gull,  a  tawny  sandolo  would  dart  past,  dis- 
tancing all  her  more  dignified  sisters.  Doctors  and 
business  men  use  these  light  craft  as  the  quickest 
means  of  getting  about,  and  boys  row  them  instead 
of  the  usual  gondoliers. 

One  day  as  I  was  admiring  the  doctor's  boat  that 

[*7] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

had  just  shot  out  from  the  shadow  of  a  low-arched 
bridge,  Signorina  told  me  that  she  knew  where  its 
double  could  be  found,  and  a  reliable  piccolo  to  care 
for  it. 

So  the  very  same  afternoon  I  had  an  interview 
with  a  strapping  big  Venetian,  owner  of  the  san- 
doloj,  who  brought  with  him  a  short,  square-set  boy 
of  fourteen,  dressed  in  old  trousers  and  a  coat  about 
nine  sizes  too  large  for  him.  A  few  words  sealed 
the  bargain  that  made  me  master  of  the  boat.  It 
was  to  be  delivered  next  morning  in  perfect  condi- 
tion :  fresh  rugs,  black  leather  cushions  well  padded, 
its  steel  prow  polished,  its  wood-work  oiled,  and  its 
prancing  brass  sea-horses  brightly  burnished. 

Then  turning  to  the  boy,  who  had  never  ceased 
twirling  his  old  felt  hat — fit  companion  to  his  fringed 
trousers, — I  asked  him  what  he  expected  a  month. 

"A  lira  and  a  half  a  day,"  said  he. 

I  shook  my  head,  and  he  quickly  added,  "That  's 
what  I  askedj,  but  you  can  give  me  what  you  please." 

That  settled  the  bargain,  and  Giovanni  entered  my 
service  at  once,  with  no  other  wardrobe  than  his  win- 
ter rags — though  we  were  then  in  the  dog-days. 

Next  morning  the  yellow  sandolo,  immaculately 
[48] 


a..--        "^ 


Painted  Sails  Glowing  with  Suns  and  Crosses 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

clean,  swept  up  to  our  riva,  with  Giovanni,  proud 
as  an  admiral,  standing  on  the  poppa,  perfectly  un- 
conscious of  the  ridiculous  figure  he  cut. 

I  felt  at  once  he  could  not  row  me  about  in  such 
rags,  for  I  had  dreamed  of  him  in  spotless  white,  with 
broad  sailor  collar,  and  long  blue  ribbons  dangling 
from  his  wide-brimmed  straw  hat.  But  certainly  he 
could  not  be  trusted  to  select  this  finery  alone.  So  I 
bade  him  row  me  to  the  Rialto,  adding,  "for  you  must 
have  a  straw  hat,  a  sash,  and  some  thinner  clothes." 

"Servo  suo"  was  his  dignified  response.  No  de- 
lighted smile,  though  I  noticed  that  the  sandolo  flew. 

He  chose  the  way  through  a  rio  where  many  gon- 
doliers live ;  and  friends  of  his,  leaning  over  the  low 
parapet,  greeted  him  with  quiet  bravos  as  we  passed. 
I  doubt  not  but  that  was  the  proudest  moment  of  his 
young  life ;  for  was  he  not  rowing  a  "signore  inglese!" 

We  darted  out  into  the  Grand  Canal,  and  in  my 
admiration  of  his  young  strength  I  quite  forgot  what 
a  funny  figure  he  cut  in  his  tatters.  An  omnibus 
steamer  was  coming  directly  toward  us.  The  nose 
of  the  sandolo  hesitated,  trembled,  then  wavered, 
first  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left.  The  little 
vaporetto  loomed  up  big  as  a  thousand-tonner,  and 

[50] 


A  Campiello  near  San  Rocco,  Venice 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

Giovanni's  oar  still  being  undecided,  the  steamer  al- 
most ran  us  down.    By  some  divine  interposition  we 


The  Arsenal  Gate 

managed  to  graze  by  her,  and  she  left  us  bouncing 
in  her  foamy  wake,  the  passengers  calling  out  warn- 
ing reprovals.  Giovanni's  black  eyes  snapped;  the 
perspiration  coursed  in  shining  rivulets  down  his 
smooth,  round  face,  and  turning,  he  shouted  after  the 

[52] 


A  SUMMER  IN  A  SANDOLO 

disappearing  boat,  "It  's  all  your  fault," — ^which  so 
amused  me  that  I  quite  calmed  down. 

We  made  the  Rialto  without  further  incident, 
though  his  landing  was  clumsy,  which  I  willingly 
enough  excused,  as  the  boy  was  so  "flustrated." 

Leaving  the  sandolo  in  charge  of  an  old  man,  we 
set  off,  Giovanni  bareheaded,  through  the  crowded 
Merceria.  Pushing  our  way  through  that  narrow, 
busy  street,  I  thought  of  a  day  centuries  ago,  when 
the  Venetians,  celebrating  a  great  victory,  hung  the 
priceless  canvases  of  Titian  and  Tintoretto  and  Pal- 
ma  along  its  entire  length.  Probably  never  before  or 
after  was  such  wealth  of  art  displayed  in  a  public 
thoroughfare. 

But  I  dismissed  the  thoughts  of  the  noble  past,  and 
began  prosaically  to  search  in  the  small  shops  on 
either  hand  for  a  wide-brimmed  straw  hat.  The  un- 
usual size  of  Giovanni's  head  made  it  a  difficult  task. 
We  were  obliged  at  length  to  content  ourselves  with 
a  hat  minus  long  ribbons;  but  Giovanni  philosoph- 
ically remarked,  "That  does  n't  matter,  for  is  n't  my 
sister  a  tailor?  and  she  can  make  the  ribbons  long." 
Linen  trousers  were  next  found;  but  they  needed 
shortening,  which  alteration,  of  course,  the  tailor  sis- 

[53] 


A  SUMMER  IN  A  SANDOLO 

ter  could  make.  Then  we  added  a  scarlet  waist-scarf, 
and  completed  our  purchases  with  some  loose  blue 
and  white  shirts  of  striped  material. 

Giovanni  proudly  bore  away  his  parcels,  smiling 
contentedly  under  his  new  hat,  and  we  set  off  toward 
home  for  the  transformation  scene. 

But  he  must  have  lost  his  wits  completely,  for  we 
went  headlong  into  every  floating  object  on  the 
Grand  Canal,  and  very  soon  I  learned  the  uses  of 
our  strong  steel  ram. 

At  last  we  did  manage  to  get  into  the  narrow  Rio 
San  Trovaso,  and  I  realized  the  sad  truth  that  my 
boy  lacked  experience.  On  reaching  home  I  told  him 
he  could  keep  the  clothes,  but  that  he  could  not  be 
my  poppe  another  hour.  He  pleaded  his  cause 
nobly,  and  assured  me  that  every  gondolier  on  the 
Grand  Canal  was  at  fault  except  himself;  but  I 
looked  away  from  his  big  black  eyes  and  held  to  my 
resolution. 

With  Giovanni's  failure  my  castles  fell. 

But  boys  in  Venice  are  as  plentiful  as  the  stones, 
and  crop  up  as  quickly  as  the  heads  of  the  Lernaean 
Hydra!  Within  two  hours  the  choice  became  em- 
barrassing ;  but  at  last  I  decided  upon  Domenico,  the 
son  of  our  fruitman  at  the  corner. 

[55] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 


To  my  delight  Domenico  proved  thoroughly  com- 
petent— even  having  white  clothes  of  his  own  and  a 
new  straw  hat.   On  t  • 

complimenting 
him  upon  his  neat 
appearance,  he 
said :  '  'And  you 
see  this  hat?  I  've 
just  bought  it  from 
Giovanni  for  one 
lii'a  fifty;  non  e 
caro, — vero?" 

And  surely  Gio- 
vanni had  not  al- 
lowed much  sand 
to  slip  through  the 
hour-glass  ere  he 
had  disposed  of  my 

.  (^.  ^  .-IT  In  Less  Frequented  Canals 

girt,  and   possibly  ^ 

now  was  puffing  the  fruits  of  his  deal  in  cigarette 

smoke  around   the   corner.     Oh,    these   piccoli    di 

Venezia! 

Then  began  those  dreamy  days  spent  sketching  in 
less   frequented   canals,   Domenico   sitting   on  the 

[56] 


A  SUMMER  IN  A  SANDOLO 

poppa  back  of  me,  his  bronzed  face  framed  in  his 
white  open  shirt.  Or,  curling  himself  up  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sandolo,  he  would  sleep  for  hours,  rocked 
by  the  passing  of  an  occasional  gondola  or  fruit- 
barge  laden  with  luscious  grapes  and  rosy-cheeked 
peaches  and  baskets  of  tomatoes  piled  high  in  scarlet 
pyramids.  How  deftly  these  venders  manage  their 
boats  in  the  narrow  waterways,  often  dropping  the 
oar  to  push  with  their  hands  against  the  house  walls ! 
And  then  squeezing  round  that  last  bend  of  the 
dingy  Malcanton,  what  a  flood  of  sunshine  bursts 
upon  their  flaming  freight,  which,  like  a  brand  of 
fire,  burns  long  trembling  reflections  into  the  dark 
water ! 

And  in  broader  channels  we  drifted  on  limpid 
mirrors,  in  whose  glassy  surfaces  each  palace — a  real 
coquette — sees  its  wondrous  beauty  doubled, — pal- 
aces as  rare  in  color  as  the  rugs  of  Persia,  faded  by 
the  wear  of  centuries.  And  I  tried  to  picture  them 
in  their  original  splendor,  and  as  I  did  so,  thought 
of  the  horror  of  the  lordly  owners,  coming  back  from 
over  Styx,  and  seeing,  emblazoned  above  their  proud 
escutcheons,  "Glass  Manufactory"  or,  "Mosaic 
Works"! 

[57] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

When  I  suggested  a  pause,  Domenico  would  run 
a  short  nail  into  a  wall-chink  and  tie  up  in  the 
shadow  of  a  Gothic  palace  whose  wide  entrance- 
steps — dank  and  green — led  to  a  mysteriously  dusky 
interior,  and  the  slimy,  greenish  walls  recalled  the 
story  of  that  hapless  signore  who,  stealing  by  night 
from  his  lady's  bower,  fell  through  a  trap  into  a  dark 
chamber,  half  under  water,  where  he  miserably  died 
of  cold  and  hunger,  while  his  mistress  in  her  tapes- 
tried halls  listened  in  vain  for  his  coming. 

At  other  times,  under  low  bridges,  where  reflected 
lights  of  stirring  waters  rippled  over  rough-cut 
stones  like  lights  on  Pompeian  glass,  we  rested  and 
watched  the  play  of  sunhght  down  the  watery  streets 
— the  gondolas,  freighted  with  dark  shadows,  nosing 
under  a  Madonna,  serene  on  a  palace  wall,  'mid 
bunches  of  wistaria.  And  under  the  bridge  that 
leads  to  the  Foscari  gates  the  echoes  of  many  cen- 
turies roll  back,  and  distinctly  from  among  them 
comes  the  hollow  tramp  of  horses  overhead — a  gal- 
lant escort  of  young  nobles  leading  forth  a  timid 
bride.  The  gorgeous  pageant  takes  its  way  in 
triumph  through  the  narrow  lanes  and  over  rattling 
wooden  bridges  and  across  the  broad  Piazza  to  the 
Ducal  Palace  in  the  full  splendor  of  a  perfect  day, 

[58] 


A  SUMMER  IN  A  SANDOLO 


with  champing  and  pawing 
of  noble  steeds  and  the  blasts 
of  many  trumpets,  the  only 
time  such  soimds  were  heard 
in  all  Venetian  history. 

But  the  trickhng  water 
from  a  passing  oar  recalls  me 
to  the  silent  Venice  of  to-day, 
and  to  the  generations  of 
Venetians  who  never  have 
seen  so  much  as  even  a  pack- 
mule  in  their  streets. 

On  warm  summer  evenings 
we  rowed  to  the  Lido,  and 
there  cooled  ourselves  by  a 
dip  in  the  lazy  sea.  And 
afterwards  upon  a  terrace  we 
watched  the  violet  tones  die 
into  the  starlit  night.  After 
the  heat  of  noonday,  how  re- 
freshing to  glide  homeward 
with  a  gentle  breeze  fanning 
our  faces  and  the  moonlight 
dancing  on  the  rippling 
water  I 

[59] 


r^-S.. 


A  Madonna  on  a  Palace 
Wall 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

During  the  tranquil  autumn  days— those  days  be- 
fore the  death  of  summer — we  visited  the  surround- 
ing islands.  Striking  through  the  main  artery  of 
the  Giudecca,  where  saifron  sails  of  fishing-smacks 
flaunt  their  rich  colors,  and  festoons  of  purple  nets 
— rich  laces  of  the  fisher-folk — swing  from  mast  to 
mast,  we  come  out  into  open  water.  A  pearly  white- 
ness bathes  the  broad  lagoons,  uniting  sea  and  sky 
— the  sea  a  smooth  enamel,  the  sky  veiled  like  a 
bride's  pale  face.  Little  islands  dotted  with  trees 
float  miragelike  on  the  glassy  waters.  A  campanile 
and  the  hulls  of  far-off  barges  lend  the  only  darker 
note. 

Every  day  we  rippled  the  reflections  of  Don 
Carlos's  golden  fleurs-de-lis.  My  Domenico  could 
not  understand  why  Don  Carlos — so  handsome  a 
prince  and  really  King  of  Spain — (should  the  Carl- 
ists  have  full  sway) — lived  so  quietly,  with  a  red 
parrot  perched  on  his  passettOj  and  an  old  major- 
domo  in  blue  jeans  sitting  at  his  palace  entrance. 
And  often,  as  we  passed,  the  long-tailed  bird 
screeched  after  us.  But  I  noticed  she  preserved  a 
respectful  silence  if  her  lordly  master  was  entering 
his  gondola. 

[60] 


A  SUMMER  IN  A  SANDOLO 

Domenico's  idea  of  kings  meant  brave  uniforms 
and  flying  flags,  and  tapestries  hanging  from  palace 
windows.  And  so  one  day,  when  news  came  that 
Italy's  King  and  Queen  were  really  coming  to 
Venice  (the  first  time  since  their  accession  to  the 
throne),  Domenico  was  beside  himself  with  joy. 


'■_y 


The  Broad  Lagoons 

The  afternoon  of  their  arrival,  in  spotless  white, 
he  appeared  at  our  riva  at  three,  though  the  royal 
party  was  not  expected  until  six.  So  immaculate 
was  the  sandolo  that  I  wished  their  Majesties  would 
visit  Venice  more  frequently.  Finally,  in  a  double 
line  of  embarcations  crowded  with  an  eager  throng, 
we  took  our  places  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Every  bal- 
cony was  decked  with  flags  and  rugs  and  costly 
brocades;  every  window  was  peopled  with  a  group 
of  heads. 

[61] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

Just  as  the  sun's  last  rays  were  gilding  the  mellow 
palace  fronts  a  glorious  burst  of  color  shot  down  the 
Grand  Canal— a  glow  of  tints  that  no  pen  can 
describe. 

A  dozen  hissone,  boats  of  great  size,  each  manned 
by  a  score  of  men,  headed  the  brilKant  cortege.  One 
bore  upon  its  prow  Fame  blowing  her  golden  trum- 
pet ;  another,  Neptune,  trident  in  hand,  on  his  silver 
shell;  and  still  another.  Flora  scattering  her  blos- 
soms. Some  of  the  oarsmen  were  robed  as  Phoeni- 
cians, others  as  Egyptians,  while  a  crew  of  young 
Romeos  rowed  another  boat,  dragging  in  their  wake 
yards  of  crimson  velvet.  Canopies  of  damask  and 
cloth  of  gold  sheltered  the  city's  dignitaries.  And  in 
this  festive  group  moved  a  sombre  gondola  manned 
by  four  gondoliers  in  liveries  of  red  and  black.  As 
it  passed,  the  bands  played  and  people  waved  their 
hats,  for  in  it  sat  the  King  and  Queen — he  in  gen- 
eral's uniform,  she  in  white.  Behind  them  in  com- 
pact masses  followed  the  countless  gondolas  of 
Venice's  nobility  in  gala  dress,  escorting  the  youth- 
ful couple  to  the  Royal  Palace. 


[62] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

1 

nUME  TO  METKOVICH 

ON  a  crisp  evening  early  in  October  our  two 
gondoliers  rowed  us  out  over  the  Giudecca 
Canal    toward    a    steamer    lying    off   the 
Dogana. 

The  sun  was  just  setting  in  a  bank  of  purple 
clouds.  Long  mare's-tails — signs  of  wind — streaked 
fiery  and  golden  across  patches  of  amber  sky  and 
mirrored  their  hot  tints  in  the  water.  A  stiff  breeze 
whipped  a  froth  from  the  choppy  sea  and  the  waves 
merrily  lapped  our  gondola's  prow  as  the  men  bent 
low  on  their  oars  against  the  incoming  tide.  A  little 
knot  of  boats  huddled  about  the  steamer's  side,  oc- 
cupants and  gondoliers  shouting  themselves  hoarse 
in  their  efforts  to  get  aboard;  an  extra  pull  or  two, 
a  lunge  of  the  long,  black  boat  and  our  poppe  caught 
a  rope  and  we  scrambled  up  the  ladder. 

The  craft  on  which  we  found  ourselves  lay  white 
[65] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

and  graceful  as  a  swan  upon  the  water,  her  masts 
rakishly  atilt,  her  promenade  deck  polished  like  an 
inlaid  floor,  her  appointments  so  luxurious  that,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  fellow-passengers  about  us — 
Austrians,  for  the  most  part— we  might  have  fancied 
ourselves  on  a  private  yacht. 

As  we  hung  over  the  rail,  the  dying  glow  of  the 
sunset  made  way  for  the  twinkling  stars.  For  the 
last  time  we  listened  to  the  singers  in  the  barca  below 
us  wafting  up  the  well-known  strains  of  "La  Bella 
Venezia"  and  "Ah,  Maria,  Mari."  The  Doge's  palace 
gleamed  like  a  pale  opal,  the  foliated  pinnacles  of 
San  Marco,  canopied  and  peopled  with  saints  pierced 
the  sapphire  sky — the  very  stars  were  dimmed  by  the 
magic  of  that  wondrous  square.  The  strains  of  the 
Piazzetta  band  floated  in  agitated  cadences  across 
the  water,  where  flickered  tiny  hghts,  like  fire-flies 
— lanterns  of  uneasy  gondolas. 

Three  deep  blasts  of  the  whistle,  a  creaking  of  the 
anchor-chains,  and  the  regular  thud  of  the  propeller 
tells  us  we  are  off*  for  Fiume. 

The  Salute's  dome  fades  into  the  night,  the  bright 
lights  of  the  Piazza  burst  into  view,  then  veil  them- 
selves behind  the  Ducal  palace,  the  Riva  degli  Schia- 

[66] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

voni  unfolds  its  sparkling  length,  the  arc-lights  of 
the  Lido  double  themselves  in  the  lagoon — then  dark- 
ness, black  and  inky,  broken  only  by  an  occasional 
lantern  on  the  breakwater  or  a  brilliant  gleam  from 
the  search-light  of  the  customs-boat  following  like  a 
nautilus,  first  on  one  side  of  us,  then  on  the  other. 
The  last  light  is  passed  and  we  plunge  in  the  teeth  of 
a  strong  head  wind  into  the  open  sea.    .    .    . 

The  bright  sails  of  a  Chioggia  fishing-boat  flash 
by  the  port -hole;  the  dancing  sea  is  strangely  near. 
It  is  no  dream.  Outside  day  is  just  whitening  in  the 
east  and  the  purple  Istrian  mountains  glide  by 
grotesquely  distorted  by  water-drops  on  the  convex 
glass.  As  I  go  on  deck  Fiume  looms  into  sight,  gray 
and  misty  in  the  morning  light,  its  blue  smoke  set- 
tling on  the  house-tops. 

We  spend  an  hour  or  two  wandering  about  the 
bright  new  Austrian  streets,  and  in  the  byways  of  old 
Fiume,  and  among  the  fishing-craft  clustered  under 
shady  sycamores  along  the  quay ;  then  board  another 
steamer  and  this  time  are  fairly  oiF  for  Dalmatia. 

Dalmatia  is  a  country  so  easy  of  access,  yet  so  little 
traveled — reached  in  a  day  from  Venice,  or  Trieste, 

[67] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

yet  such  a  new,  fresh  field  for  the  tourist,  so  un- 
touched by  the  onward  march  of  the  past  hundred 
years.  It  is  a  country  of  transition.  In  it  the  Occi- 
dent touches  the  Orient  and  almost  mingles  with  it. 
Its  coast,  mclining  toward  Italy,  has  imbibed  Latin 
influence,  but  once  over  the  mountain  wall  the  Orient 
begins — Turkey,  with  all  its  ignorance  and  super- 
stition. In  its  marts  Italians  of  the  coast — ^the  "Bo- 
doli" — meet  Turks,  and  Servians,  and  other  Slavs  in 
turbaned  fez  and  flowing  trousers. 

Dalmatia  is  a  long,  thin  strip  of  territory,  border- 
ing the  east  coast  of  the  Adriatic — its  northern  ex- 
tremity on  a  parallel  with  Genoa,  its  southernmost 
point  opposite  Rome.  Like  most  countries  bathed  by 
the  Mediterranean,  it  presents  an  arid  front  to  the 
sea. 

Bald  mountains  lift  their  heads  from  the  water's 
edge;  bleak  islands  break  the  horizon  with  clear-cut 
silhouettes — ^with  an  almost  utter  lack  of  verdure, 
save  on  the  gentler  slopes  and  in  the  rocky  hollows, 
where  pale  olives  and  almond-trees  shelter  their  frail 
branches.  Local  color  is  lacking.  It  is  a  simple 
drawing,  delicately  penciled  as  a  Da  Vinci  back- 
ground.   But  on  this  simple  drawing  Nature  plays 

[68] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

her  choicest  color-scales.  The  whitish  mountains  and 
pale  rock-surfaces  catch  every  variation  of  the  atmo- 
sphere— every  gradation  of  sun  and  shadow,  of 
morning  and  evening,  and  sensitively  pale  into  silvery 
opals,  then  flush  with  crimson  and  gold  or  threaten- 
ingly lower  under  heavy  thunder-clouds. 


Arbe — an  Island  Town 


Only  occasionally  man's  presence  is  felt  in  a  bit 
of  ruined  castle  topping  an  island,  or  a  chapel  perched 
upon  a  ledge  above  the  sea,  and  once  in  a  while  only, 
as  a  surprise,  a  town  sheltered  snug  in  the  recess  of  a 
tiny  harbor  comes  to  greet  the  traveler. 

[69] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 


ON  BOARD  THE  PANNONIA 


A  QUIET  day  lolling  in  steamer-chairs  with  the  pro- 
peller's thud  beneath  us.  The  breath  of  the  hora 
bears  us  along,  the  crested  whitecaps  chase  us.  To 
the  east,  the  Velebit  wraps  its  ashen  summits  in  foggy 
sheets ;  low-lying  islands  girt  with  shimmering  sands 
float  on  an  amethyst  sea.  The  dreamy  noonday 
hours  wear  on.  And  now  up  over  the  bow,  rising  out 
of  the  glittering  sea,  poising  her  square-cut  mass  be- 
tween the  mainland  and  Ugljan,  rises  Zara,  the 
capital  and  first  port  of  Dalmatia. 

Dalmatia  of  to-day  comprises  the  greater  part  of 
the  ancient  province  of  lUyria.  Among  its  archi- 
pelagoes, Greeks,  Phoenicians,  and  Syracusans 
founded  numerous  colonies.  It  became  a  Roman 
province  in  the  second  century  before  Christ,  but 
remained  refractory  until  the  time  of  Augustus.  On 
the  fall  of  Rome  it  fell  a  prey  to  barbarians  and  was 
never  free  from  war  until  the  thirteenth  century. 

Then  Venice  was  beginning  her  glorious  career, 
and  her  warlike  Doge,  Enrico  Dandolo,  destroying 
Zara,  took  possession  of  the  coast.    For  almost  three 

[70] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

centuries  Dalmatia  remained  under  Venetian  dom- 
ination and  the  great  republic  has  left  her  impress 
everywhere  upon  the  land— not  only  in  numerous  ef- 
figies of  her  winged  lion  upon  the  walls  and  over  the 
city  gates,  but  in  the  characteristic  architecture  of  the 
palaces  and  camyanili,  in  the  laws  that  govern  the 
people,  in  their  language,  their  arts  and  letters. 

In  the  sixteenth  century  the  Sultan,  profiting  by 
the  weakness  of  Venice's  old  age,  pounced  down  upon 
this  neighboring  province  and  took  it.  Mosques  were 
erected  and  a  Turkish  pasha  installed  in  the  castle  of 
Clissa.  But  a  hundred  years  later,  Venice  and  the 
Austrian  emperor  combined  broke  the  power  of 
Islam,  and  Istria  and  Dalmatia  were  allotted  to  Aus- 
tria and  have  remained  under  her  dominion  ever 
since,  save  for  a  few  years  of  French  occupation  un- 
der Napoleon. 

ZAEA 

We  are  not  novices  in  traveling,  but  never  shall  we 
forget  the  strange  delight  of  the  first  few  hours  in 
Zara.  Not  that  the  city  itself  is  so  interesting,  for, 
though  it  contains  some  noteworthy  monuments,  the 
general  character  is  that  of  most  Italian  towns ;  nar- 

[71] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

row  streets  and  tall,  straight  houses,  churches  more 
or  less  Lombard  in  character,  pointed  doorways  sur- 
mounted by  crests  as  in  Venice,  courts  with  old  walls 
shaded  by  a  vine-pergola.  But  it  is  the  life  of  the 
town  that  is  so  extraordinary,  the  wonderful  wealth 
of  costume  and  the  variety  of  types  to  be  seen  in  its 
winding  streets — costumes  the  like  of  whose  barbaric 
splendor  is  not  to  be  found  elsewhere  in  Europe  to- 
day. 

Take  your  place  in  the  Via  Tribunale  in  the  morn- 
ing hours  when  the  peasants  push  their  way  to  and 
from  the  market-place. 

Here  two  women  from  Benkovac  stop  and,  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes,  carefully  deposit  their  bundles 
on  the  ground,  then  kiss  each  other  with  resounding 
smacks  upon  each  cheek.  Their  hair  is  plaited  with 
red  and  green  ribbon ;  their  caps,  red  as  tomatoes  and 
embroidered  in  silk,  are  half  hidden  under  large  ker- 
chiefs. Over  coarse  linen  shirts  they  wear  dark -blue 
coats,  long  and  shapeless  and  richly  trimmed  with 
beads  9,nd  braid;  their  woollen  aprons  and  dangling 
fringes  are  of  Oriental  design,  like  Kiskillam  rugs; 
their  short  skirts  show  heavy  leggings,  woven  like  the 
aprons,  and  feet  encased  in  moccasins.    About  their 

[72] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

necks  hang  numerous  jewels  and  chains  of  roughly 
beaten  metal,  set  with  bits  of  colored  glass,  with  car- 
nelians  and  turquoises.  On  their  fingers  gleam  cum- 
brous rings,  and  their  waists  are  girdled  with  several 
lengths  of  leather-strap  studded  with  metal  nails, 
whence  hang  long,  open-bladed  knives.  The  whole 
costume,  rude  and  barbaric  in  the  extreme,  still  has 
had  lavished  upon  it  all  the  art  of  which  the  race  is 
capable. 

Beside  them  three  women  entirely  clothed  in  black, 
with  sad,  colorless  faces  such  as  Cottet  paints,  make 
a  melancholy  contrast  to  all  their  savage  finery. 

Over  there  a  group  of  five  athletic  men  from  Knin 
are  discussing  their  aiFairs,  and  a  brave  bit  of  color 
they  make.  Their  wide-sleeved  shirts,  fringed  with 
tassels,  gleam  white  under  two  double-breasted  vests, 
one  striped,  the  other  richly  wrought  in  silk  and 
golden  braid ;  thick  scarfs  bind  in  their  waists  and  on 
some  are  replaced  by  huge  leathern  girdles  from 
whose  pockets  peep  knives,  long  pipes,  combs,  and 
towels.  Their  trousers,  wide  at  the  hips,  taper  in 
close  at  the  ankles,  where  they  meet  the  opance,  a 
kind  of  slipper  made  of  woven  leather  thongs. 

Each  district  varies  the  design  of  its  costume,  each 
[73] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

individual  varies  its  details  to  suit  his  taste;  every 
color  is  employed,  by  preference  brilliant  red.  The 
road  by  the  Porta  Terra  Firma  is  one  of  the  busiest 


The  Porta  Terra  Firma,  Zara 

scenes.  Here  women  from  Obrovac  spin  from  a 
distaff  as  they  vend  dry  boughs  in  the  wood-market; 
others  trudge  toward  distant  mountain  homes,  stag- 
gering under  piles  of  goat-skins  or  baskets  of  pro- 
visions sufficient  for  the  week  to  come;  fishermen 
from  Arbe  and  Pasman  make  ready  their  gayly 
painted  boats  for  the  homeward  cruise;  Slavs  from 

[74] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

Zemonico,  robust  Bosnians  from  Bihac,  Servians 
from  Kistanje  herd  their  flocks  of  turkeys,  their 
goats  and  sheep  and  cattle ;  teamsters  from  Sin jurge 
along  tough  mountain  ponies,  hitched  three  abreast 
to  rude  wagons  piled  with  sacks  of  grain, — a  strange 
cosmopolitan  whirl — half  Occident,  half  Orient, 
where  the  blood  of  many  races  mingles ! 

SEBENICO 

No  suspicion  of  a  town  has  yet  been  revealed  to  the 
eye  when  the  grim  walls  and  ugly  throats  of  the  guns 
of  Fort  San  Niccolo  threaten  to  dispute  the  rocky 
defile  into  which  our  steamer  enters — a  passage  so 
narrow  that  one  can  throw  a  stone  across.  When  the 
big  ship  has  carefully  wriggled  through,  a  broad  har- 
bor opens  out  with  Sebenico  piling  in  an  amphi- 
theatre at  its  far  extremity.  All  the  landscape 
is  desolate,  devoid  of  verdure,  rocky,  sun-baked, 
scourged  by  the  fierce  north  wind,  the  hora,  and  the 
houses  of  the  city  and  the  great  walls  of  the  Spanish 
castles  and  the  hill-sides  and  the  stony  valleys  all  are 
tinged  with  the  same  ashen  hue. 

The  city,  rising  from  the  water's  edge  like  Genoa, 
[75] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

piles  house  on  house  high  up  the  hill,  punctuated  here 
and  there  by  a  spire  or  a  dome. 

But  it  proved  more  promising  at  a  distance  than 
on  more  intimate  acquaintance.  To  be  sure,  the 
cathedral,  with  its  fine  north  door,  well  repays  a  visit, 
and  so,  too,  does  the  cemetery,  commanding  a  noble 
survey  seawards  over  the  bay  and  the  neighboring 
islands.  The  winding  streets  and  high-staired  alleys 
afford  many  a  picturesque  vista,  but  the  town  lacks 
distinctive  features,  and  the  hotel  is  far  from  good, 
as  we  can  testify  from  painful  experience. 

From  Sebenico  a  little  railroad,  recently  con- 
structed, takes  one  on  to  Spalato.  The  distance  is 
about  forty  miles,  to  which  one  gives  five  hours  in  the 
train!  The  track  first  winds  through  small  inlaid 
valleys  planted  with  vines,  whose  autumn  russets  con- 
trast with  the  dull  green  of  olives. 

Soon  we  mount  into  more  arid  regions.  All  is  sad 
and  bleak  and  barren— not  a  tree,  not  a  shrub.  Dry 
river-courses  run  down  the  gorges — raging  torrents 
they  are  at  times,  after  heavy  rains.  Now  and  then 
loose  stones  piled  up  frame  a  sheep-fold  or  form  low 
walls  to  hedge  in  patches  of  earth. 

Higher  and  higher  we  climb,  the  tiny  engine  puff- 
[76] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

ing  itself  hoarse  on  the  steep  grade.  The  horizon 
grows  wider  and  wider.  Great  fleecy  clouds,  like 
gulls,  float  across  the  azure  sky,  and  over  the  sun- 
scorched  hills  sweep  cool,  purplish  shadows,  drifting 
in  wandering  undulations  up  and  down  the  slopes. 
A  few  weak  vineyards,  built  at  the  cost  of  how  much 
toil,  descend  into  the  depths  of  marshy  valleys — lakes 
in  winter,  stone-dry  in  summer.  Not  a  house  in 
sight;  no  sign  of  life  but  a  shepherd  wrapped  in  his 
mantle,  still  as  bronze,  and  farther  on  a  goose-girl 
down  in  a  shaded  hollow.  Ever  higher  we  go  and 
higher,  till  suddenly  the  top  of  the  pass  is  reached  and 
a  new  world  opens  to  our  eager  eyes. 

We  are  on  the  crest  of  the  Mosor.  From  its  dizzy 
height  the  eye  drops  unhindered  down  to  where  fold 
on  fold  of  mountain  sweeps  to  lower  levels,  luxuriant 
with  vines  and  olives — the  land  of  promise  after  the 
wilderness.  Headlands  like  dark  tongues  shoot  out 
to  lick  the  shimmering  sea,  radiant  in  the  silver  light 
of  noonday.  Man  has  taken  possession  of  this  land 
of  milk  and  honey,  for  down  along  the  water's  edge 
villages  are  seen  and  castles;  houses  dot  the  hill- 
slopes,  and  high  upon  a  commanding  peak  a  pilgrim 
church  gives  thanks  unto  the  heavens. 

[77] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

This  is  the  Riviera  of  the  Seven  Castles,  and  at  its 
far  end  lies  Spalato. 

SPALATO 

Almost  half  of  Spalato's  20,000  souls  live  within  the 
walls  of  Diocletian's  palace.  This  latter  is  a  rect- 
angle, built  upon  the  plan  of  the  fortified  Roman 
camp,  enclosing  within  its  cyclopean  walls,  eighty 
feet  in  height,  an  entire  quarter  of  the  modem  city. 
At  each  angle  of  the  walls  stands  a  massive  tower. 
In  the  centre  of  each  fa9ade  a  gate  opens,  except  in 
that  turned  toward  the  sea,  where  a  narrow  postern 
admitted  the  royal  barge.  One  cross-street  divides 
the  enclosure  into  a  northern  and  southern  half,  con- 
necting the  Silver  Gate  with  the  Iron  Gate ;  another 
leads  from  the  northern  or  Golden  Gate  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  Imperial  apartments. 

It  was  through  the  Golden  Gate — the  Porta  Au- 
rea,  still  in  excellent  preservation — that  Diocletian 
entered  his  palace  when  coming  from  S  alone. 

Under  its  soaring  arches  the  cruel  Emperor,  once 
a  simple  soldier  of  the  legion,  now  covered  with  the 
royal  purple — a  man  of  the  people  now  appropriating 
to  himself  the  name  of  Jovius,  the  equal  of  God — 
rumbled  in  his  gilded  chariot  and  thundered  down 

[78] 


Portico  of  Diocletian's  Palace,  Spalato 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

the  passage-way  between  his  slaves'  quarters  and 
those  of  his  aged  mother,  until,  racked  with  disease, 
a  victim  of  all  the  luxury  of  later  Roman  times,  he 


-^1^  '^-v 

^^^^^^, 


'^■M^\/- 


im 


^M 


/^ 


\^^ 


The  Old  Quay  and  South  Wall  of  Diocletian's  Palace,  Spalato 

painfully  alighted  before  the  noble  portico,  the  en- 
trance to  his  private  apartments,  where  later  he  was 
to  end  his  sufferings  by  his  own  hand. 

This  portico  is  left  to  us  to-day — a  court  a  him- 
dred  feet  long  and  forty  wide,  enclosed  on  three 
sides  by  magnificent  colonnades.  A  stately  fa9ade 
occupies  the  south  end  and  gives  access  to  a  circular 

[79] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

structure  whose  lower  travertine  walls  alone  remain. 
The  spaces  between  the  western  colonnade  have  been 
filled  in  with  mediseval  houses,  but  on  the  east  side 
the  columns  stand  free. 

Two  Sphinxes,  mute  and  inscrutable,  look  down  on 
the  steps  ascending  to  the  so-called  Mausoleum,  a 
building  vying  in  interest  with  the  Pantheon  of 
Rome.  In  forni  an  octagon,  it  is  surrounded  by  an 
ambulatory  whose  stone  roof  is  held  aloft  by  twenty- 
four  Corinthian  columns.  Its  interior  is  circular,  but 
broken  by  eight  niches — four  square,  four  round. 
Eight  huge  monolithic  pillars  of  Egyptian  granite 
support  a  florid  Corinthian  cornice  upon  which  rests 
a  range  of  smaller  columns  of  black  porphyry,  sup- 
porting the  dome.  This  latter  is  built  of  tiles  of  a 
fan-shaped  construction  found  in  no  other  existing 
Roman  building.  In  fact,  this  dome  and  that  of  the 
Pantheon  are  the  only  two  left  to  us  from  ancient 
times.  In  the  Mausoleum,  as  in  the  other  buildings 
of  the  group,  a  very  hard  stone,  quarried  near  by  at 
Trau,  has  been  employed,  and  the  veins  of  the  acan- 
thus leaves  and  the  details  of  the  cornices  remain 
sharp  as  steel  prints  even  after  eighteen  centuries  of 
exposure  and  neglect. 

The  Mausoleum,  converted  into  a  Christian 
[80] 


Entrance  to  the  Mausoleum,  Spalato 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 


church  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  is  now  the  Ca- 
thedral of  Spalato,  and 
in  a  neighboring  street 
another  Roman  temple 
is  used  as  the  Baptis- 
tery. It  is  remarkable 
for  its  superb  cassetted 
ceiling,  in  perfect  pre- 
servation, and  for  its  font 
in  the  unwonted  form  of 
a  Greek  cross  carved 
with  most  interesting  By- 
zantine ornament. 

When  the  neighboring 
Roman  city  of  S  alone 
was  finally  destroyed  by 
the  barbarians,  its  in- 
habitants took  refuge  be- 
hind the  mighty  walls  of 
Diocletian's  palace,  where 
before  the  end  of  the 
seventh  century  a  con- 
siderable city  had  sprung 
up,  and  in  it  John  of  Ra- 

[81] 


The  Ulica  Zvonika,  Spalato 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

venna  established  himself  as  bishop.  The  old  part 
of  the  city  within  the  walls  is  now  most  densely 
packed.  The  few  streets  are  dark  and  but  five  or  six 
feet  wide,  the  houses  squeezed  together  and  pushed 
up  six  or  seven  stories  high.  Yet  here  and 
there  a  fine  old  palace  is  encountered,  rich  with 
armorial  bearings,  carven  doorways  and  traceried 
windows. 

The  south  wall  of  the  palace,  with  a  warm,  sunny 
outlook  over  the  sea,  is  now  honeycombed  with  mod- 
ern apartments,  whose  brightly  colored  window- 
shutters  contrast  vividly  with  the  classic  half -columns 
surrounding  them.  On  the  parapet  three-story 
dwellings  are  perched,  and  along  the  quay  that  skirts 
the  base,  tobacconists  and  drinking-houses  and  little 
ship-chandlers'  shops  are  barnacled  to  the  huge 
Roman  stones.  Near  the  Porta  Ferrea  a  church  has 
been  built  high  on  top  of  the  pagan  walls,  and  its 
cracked  bells  peal  for  matins  from  a  zvonik  or  bell- 
tower  astride  the  gate  itself. 

The  east  wall  looks  down  upon  the  Pazar — a  great 
open-air  market— which  on  Monday  gathers  in  a 
horde  of  peasants. 

The  restless  sea  of  humanity,  the  conglomeration 
[82] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

of  color,  is  fascinating,  but  bewildering  in  the  ex- 
treme. Soon  the  eye  learns  to  distinguish  groups  and 
individuals — here  the  venders  of  game  and  wild-fowl, 
there  the  sellers  of  turkeys  and  chickens,  miserable- 
looking  fowl  lying  with  feet  tied  together  and  a  dis- 
consolate droop  in  the  eye;  along  the  road,  pretty 
girls  in  red  caps  (the  distinctive  badge  of  unmarried 
women) ,  stand  among  mountains  of  corn-husks,  sell- 
ing them  at  a  florin  a  load,  said  load  to  be  delivered 
on  their  own  fair  shoulders.  A  mender  of  saddles 
plies  a  brisk  trade,  for  pack-mules  and  ponies  are 
legion;  and  so,  too,  does  a  fruit-peddler,  selling  de- 
cayed pears  to  the  Turks ;  and  beyond  are  the  red  tur- 
bans of  the  Bosnians  clustered  over  piles  of  meal- 
sacks,  weighing  out  large  wooden  measures,  the  con- 
tents of  which  are  verified  by  men  appointed  for  that 
purpose,  whose  business  it  is  to  pass  a  stick  over  the 
top  of  the  measure,  filling  up  any  chink  and  scraping 
oiF  any  surplus. 

In  Spalato  we  have  two  favorite  walks. 

One  out  to  the  Campo  Santo  on  a  rocky  ledge  high 
over  the  sea — a  cemetery  peacefully  quiet,  whose 
white  tombs  gleam  among  tall  cypresses.  By  the 
blue  locust  shadows  that  play  upon  its  wall  we  like  to 

[83] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

sit  and  watch  the  golden  sun  dip  his  face  behind  the 
distant  sea. 

The  other  stroll  leads  up  the  Monte  Mar j  an,  a 
rocky  hill-side  rich  with  southern  growth.  The  city 
and  its  ample  bay  lie  at  our  feet ;  behind  it  green  roll- 
ing hill-sides,  and  beyond  Clissa's  fortress  guards 
against  the  Turk,  between  the  Golo  and  the  Mosor, 
than  whose  sterile  flanks  the  purple  flush  of  orchids 
or  the  shadings  of  a  sea-shell  are  not  more  tender  or 
more  splendid. 


DRIVE  AI.ONG  THE  RIVIERA  OF  THE  SEVEN  CASTLES 

Our  light  open  carriage,  drawn  by  two  fast  horses, 
skims  over  a  broad  white  road.  The  driver,  a  Dalma- 
tian of  the  coast,  speaks  good  Italian  and  cocks  his 
red  cap  saucily,  like  Tommy  Atkins,  over  his  left  ear. 
Peasants,  bound  for  far-off"  fields,  touch  their  hats 
as  we  pass  and  call  out  dobar  dan!  It  is  my  birthday 
and  we  are  out  for  a  holiday. 

To  the  left,  mirrored  in  still  waters,  sleeps  "la  Pic- 
cola  Venezia,"  on  an  island  just  large  enough  to  hold 
her.     Her  flat-stone  roofs,  painted  dazzling  white, 

[84] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

belie  the  genial  warmth  of  the  autumn  sun  and  would 
make  us  believe  that  new  snow  had  fallen. 

We  bowl  merrily  along,  till  we  come  to  a  cross- 
roads and  notice  a  group  of  wrestlers,  life-size — a 
bas-relief  set  in  the  wall  of  a  peasant's  house.  And 
now  every  wayside  cottage  displays  some  antique 
stone  built  into  its  simple  front— one  a  bit  of  mould- 
ing, another  a  granite  shaft,  and  another  a  little 
Venus  crowded  among  rough  stones.  Stone  tables 
rest  on  classic  pillars  and  inverted  Roman  capitals 
take  the  place  of  benches.  So  we  know  that  we  are 
approaching  ancient  Salone — Rome's  proudest  city 
in  Illyria. 

Soon  antique  walls  appear  and  the  horses  pull 
heavily  over  loose  stones.  A  fragrant  avenue  of 
rosemary  and  now  fantastic  olive-trees,  hung  with 
small  black  fruit  and  festooned  with  vines  and  creep- 
ers, frame  in  a  landscape  of  surpassing  loveliness; 
gently  undulating  slopes  dropping  to  the  peaceful 
sea  on  the  one  hand,  climbing  to  majestic  mountains 
on  the  other;  purple  ranges  cutting  their  pure  pro- 
files against  blue  ranges,  outlined  against  yet  fainter 
forms  and  dying  at  last  into  the  opalescence  of  the 
distant  sky. 

[85] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

At  our  feet  the  dead  fragments  of  the  Roman  city 
— few  they  are,  but  how  they  speak!  The  early 
Christian  cemetery  with  its  hundred  and  sixty  sarco- 
phagi, desecrated,  lying  in  confusion,  each  broken 
open  by  a  rude  barbarian  hand.  One  little  tomb 
alone  escaped  the  greed  of  the  Hun,  that  of  a  girl  of 
three,  and  in  it  have  been  found,  together  with  her 
tiny  bones,  her  baby  jewels  and  rattle.  Some  of  the 
stones  are  quite  plain,  others  carved  with  Pace  and 
with  acanthus  leaves,  while  on  others,  more  preten- 
tious, are  figured  scenes  from  mythology :  the  works 
of  Hercules,  Hippolytus  and  Phaedra,  Meleager  kill- 
ing the  Calydonian  boar. 

Among  the  tombs  lie  ruins  of  the  Great  Basilica — 
a  fifth-century  cathedral,  many  of  whose  shafts  are 
still  standing.  As  we  approach  the  remains  of  the 
Baptistery  near  by,  a  group  of  ragged  urchins,  run- 
ning ahead,  throw  themselves  upon  the  ground  and 
with  grimy  hands  brush  up  the  earth  to  show  the 
squares  and  circles  of  a  fine  mosaic  pavement.  After 
seeing  the  extensive  ruins  of  the  city  walls  and  gates, 
of  the  arena  and  theatre,  we  are  off  again  along  the 
coast. 

Soon  Succurac  comes  into  sight — the  first  of  the 
[86] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

seven  castles,  linked  hand  in  hand  along  the  sea,  each 
sheltering  its  vassal  town,  first  from  the  barbarian, 
later  from  the  rapacious  Turk. 

Our  road,  bordered  by  luxuriant  foliage,  now  rises 
and  falls  on  the  slopes  of  hills.  Wild  rose-bushes  and 
mulberries,  hedges  of  myrtle  and  pomegranate  laden 
with  vermilion  fruits,  oleanders  and  clumps  of  dark 
cypresses,  fields  of  feathery  flax  and  smilax,  of  gor- 
geous tomatoes  and  autumnal  peas  stretch  out  on 
either  hand,  and  everywhere  the  vines  catch  with  their 
slender  tendrils  the  drooping  olive  branches,  marry- 
ing tree  to  tree. 

It  is  the  time  of  the  vintage. 

In  every  vineyard  mountains  of  luscious  grapes, 
purple  as  an  emperor's  coat,  are  piled  around  a  wine- 
press, where  men  bare-legged  in  the  vats  squeeze  out 
rich  juices.  Groups  of  donkeys  and  long-haired 
ponies  patiently  await  their  loads  of  goat-skins,  filled 
to  bursting  with  new-made  wine.  On  the  roads  carts 
stand  waiting,  each  with  its  huge  cask  gaping  to  be 
filled.  In  them  the  skins  are  emptied,  spilling  their 
contents  in  breathy  gasps,  dying  in  spasms,  till 
thrown  to  earth  collapsed  and  dead.  Under  the 
hedge-rows  peasants  sleep,  their  heads  pillowed  on 

[87] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

wine-filled  skins,  their  hands  and  bare  feet  puffed 
and  crimson — a  veritable  orgy,  a  Bacchanalian  rout, 
recalling  the  pagans  and  the  Silenus  of  Pompeii. 

But  here  among  tall  shafts  of  aloes  the  spires  and 
towers  of  Trau  appear,  and  we  leave  our  carriage  at 
its  gate.  Trau  is  not  clean ;  in  fact,  it  is  the.only  dirty 
town  we  found  in  Dalmatia.  The  streets  are  dark 
and  dismal  and  a  ray  of  sunlight  scarce  ever  touches 
their  grimy  pavement.  One  hesitates  to  enter  the 
dingy  lanes,  where  slatternly  women  perform  their 
toilet  by  the  open  door  or  wash  their  dirty  linen  in 
vats  of  suds:  where  coopers  thump  resounding  bar- 
rels and  donkeys  bear  their  evil-smelhng  loads.  Bac- 
chus has  been  here,  too.  The  purplish  pavements 
reek  with  drippings — from  every  house  exhales  the 
odor  of  fermenting  wine. 

But  the  Piazza  is  well  kept,  and  on  the  west  front 
of  the  Cathedral  we  are  repaid  by  seeing  the  finest 
portal  in  Dalmatia — and  fine  enough  it  is  for  any 
place.  To  the  right  of  the  door  a  primitive  Adam, 
to  the  left  an  equally  primitive  Eve,  stand  upon 
snarling  lions,  crushing  evil  monsters.  Myriad  fig- 
ures people  the  arches,  and  on  the  friezes  and  pilas- 
ters peacocks  strut  and  strange  beasts  disport  them- 
selves and  children  play  with  birds  of  paradise. 

[88] 


Cathedral  Portal,  Trau 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

As  we  journey  homeward  in  the  twihght  hours 
the  morning's  panorama  rolls  back  again,  but  soft- 
ened and  chastened  by  the  evening  light. 

Asses  almost  hidden  under  loads  of  grass,  tired 
children  sleeping  in  the  plodding  carts,  misty  tree- 
forms,  cavalcades  of  Slavs,  huge  men  with  turbaned 
heads  astride  of  fleet-foot  ponies,  file  in  procession 
across  the  sapphire  sky — a  strange  kaleidoscope  of 
misty  forms,  half  real,  like  phantoms  not  living,  yet 
not  dead. 

A  break  in  the  gathering  clouds  and  a  last  pink 
ray  of  daylight  flushes  with  coral  the  towering  moun- 
tain-tops— ^then  darkness  and  the  twinkling  stars. 

ON  BOARD  THE  ALMISSA 

On  leaving  Spalato  in  the  morning  hours  we  watch 
the  hills  glide  by.  We  wonder  at  the  captain's  skiU 
as  he  lands  our  steamer  in  limited  wind-swept  coves 
where  the  jagged  teeth  of  rocky  ledges  lurk  ready 
to  rend  the  bottom.  There  is  barely  room  for  the 
ship  to  turn  even  with  the  aid  of  cable  and  windlass, 
for  her  bow  is  but  four  feet  off  the  rocks  when  her 
propeller  stirs  up  mud  astern. 

[90] 


<'  ?^-^: 


^y^ \^ 


e-c- 


'  '^•^, 


Peasants  at  Makarska 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

These  cliffs  of  Biokovo  were  long  dreaded  by  hon- 
est mariners,  for  all  through  the  middle  ages  they 
were  a  favorite  haunt  of  pirates.  But  what  a  superb 
front  they  turn  to  the  sea!  Ashen  mountains  tower 
to  the  very  heavens.  On  their  summits,  as  on  Jove's 
brow,  thunder-clouds  threaten  and  fleck  the  cliffs 
with  mottled  shadows.  Half-way  up  the  stem  flanks 
olive-trees  cling;  little  villages  with  whitewashed 
roofs  sleep  in  the  midst  of  russet  vineyards.  Bright 
green  files  of  poplars  and  groups  of  young  pines 
shine  fresh  among  their  grayer  neighbors.  We  can 
trace  a  road  no  wider  than  a  pin-scratch  climbing  in 
sharp  zig-zags  up  and  up  the  jagged  mountain-side 
— up  to  its  very  summit,  and  can  see  the  peasants 
toiling  high  among  goat-pastures.  In  the  calm  quiet 
of  noonday  the  bark  of  a  dog  comes  clear  across  the 
water. 

As  I  lean  over  the  rail,  the  blue,  transparent  sea 
suddenly  turns  yellowish  and  turbid.  Looking  up,  I 
see  that  we  have  changed  our  course  and  are  heading 
landwards,  and  in  a  moment  we  enter  the  mouth  of  a 
river,  the  Narenta. 

Its  murky  waters  are  confined  by  dikes,  below 
which,  as  in  the  Low  Countries,  marshy  fields  appear, 

[92] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

with  here  and  there  a  pool  reflecting,  mirror-like,  the 
trees  and  mountains.  Miserable  huts  like  those  of 
Indians,  built  of  cane,  hug  the  dike-sides  as  though 
a  bit  of  solid  earth  were  needful  to  keep  them  from 
floating  away.  Dingy,  wilted  hay-stacks  surround 
them,  and  one  wonders  when  the  harvest  was  grown. 
Yet  these  fields,  now  partly  inundated,  yield  fine 
crops  in  the  summer.  Vines  flourish,  even  with  their 
gnarled  roots  in  the  water,  and  fig  and  peach  and 
cherry  trees  spread  their  branches  among  clumps  of 
bamboo. 

Cattle  graze  on  the  grassy  embankments,  and  a 
shepherdess,  twisting  flax  from  her  distaff",  drones  a 
minor  melody. 

Close  by  the  river  bank  natives  paddle  along  in 
zoppoli — fragile  boats  made  of  very  thin  planks, 
placed  at  a  wide  angle,  like  the  leaves  of  a  half -open 
book;  others  skim  by  in  trupini — skiff^s  so  light  that 
they  can  be  carried  on  the  shoulders  from  place  to 
place,  yet  are  able  to  hold  heavy  loads  of  hay,  grain, 
and  reeds. 

The  river  swarms  with  salmon-trout,  and  in  the 
neighboring  lakes  famed  eels  and  shrimp  abound. 
Ducks  and  snipe  breed  in  plenty,  and  the  captain 

[93] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

tells  us  that  pelicans,  herons,  wild  swans,  and  even 
vultures  and  eagles  are  still  to  be  found. 

Farther  on  the  course  of  the  Narenta  follows  the 
base  of  steep  mountains  fringed  by  whole  villages 
of  cane-huts  clinging  among  the  rocks.  Cattle  are 
imprisoned  in  stone  enclosures,  half  cave,  half  barn- 
yard, and  miserable  tailless  chickens  forage  in  the 
rock  crevices.  Groups  of  peasants  huddle  about  the 
hut-doors  or  toss  the  chaff  in  dusty  clouds  from  wheat 
and  rye. 

For  two  hours  the  steamer  ascends  this  narrow 
waterway — the  channel  never  more  than  a  ship's 
length  wide  and  just  deep  enough  to  clear  the  keel. 
The  deck  is  like  a  moving  platform  high  above  the 
fields,  where  half -submerged  grape-vines  still  strug- 
gle to  keep  their  rotting  branches  above  the  water. 

After  we  pass  Fort  Opus  the  country  becomes 
more  commonplace,  and  at  sundown  we  reach  Met- 
kovich. 


[94] 


II 

MOSTAR 

AHORDE  of  Turks  rushed  aboard,  for  what 
turned  out  to  be  very  Uttle  luggage.  A 
^  young  turbaned  giant  carried  off  our  bags, 
and  we  hastened  toward  a  waiting  train,  which  was 
to  take  us  into  the  interior  of  Herzegovina. 

Darkness  fell  about,  and  rain  flecked  the  window- 
panes.  The  blackness  of  a  starless  night  enveloped 
us,  except  when  long  waits  at  stations  revealed,  in 
the  flash  of  a  lantern,  a  red  fez  or  a  white  caftan.  But 
finally  dancing  lights  appeared,  reflected  in  a  river, 
and  we  had  reached  Mostar. 

From  a  rattling  carriage  nothing  could  be  seen  but 
low  houses,  with  an  occasional  gleam  from  a  tiny 
latticed  window.  Flickering  oil-lamps  swung  above 
shop-doors,  or  over  chestnut-stands;  figures  glided 
by  in  white  drapery,  in  fez,  and  ample  trousers. 

At  day-break  next  morning,  we  throw  open  our 
shutters.  High  mountains  tower  all  about  us,  girt 
to  their  middles  with  vine-terraces,  russet  and 
golden;  olive-trees  sweep  up  the  slopes  to  meet  the 

[95] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

vineyards,  and  from  their  gray  foliage  a  dozen 
slender  minarets,  arrow-like,  shoot  up  from  where 
nestle  low  stone-roofed  houses.  Far  below  roar  the 
churning  waters  of  the  Narenta.  Near  us  the  noisy 
river  is  spanned  by  a  bridge,  swaying  under  the  feet 
of  a  bustling  Oriental  throng,  making  its  way  to  the 
market-street;  Bosnians  bestriding  the  shoulders  of 
mules  and  ponies  like  Arabs  or  Andalusians ;  Ser- 
vian mountaineers  in  white  shaggy-skirted  coats  and 
leggings;  young  girls  from  Ljubuski  in  coquettish 
jackets  and  red  fez  and  full  trousers  of  cherry  and 
mauve  silk ;  trains  and  trains  of  horses,  burdened  with 
saddle-bags  and  well-filled  baskets — cav'alcades  re- 
sembHng  desert-caravans  of  swaying  camels;  Greek 
priests,  black-bearded  and  black-gowned,  contrasting 
curiously  with  Servian  women  all  in  white,  whose 
outer  garments,  tucked  up,  reveal  short  pantaloons. 

We  sip  our  coffee  overlooking  a  shady  garden 
where  a  Turk  is  raking  up  the  autumn-leaves.  Troops 
of  little  turbaned  boys  chatter  in  soft  voices  as  they 
take  their  way  to  school. 

Low  houses  border  the  road  to  the  market,  and  be- 
tween them,  here  and  there,  diminutive  latticed  win- 
dows squint  over  forbidden  walls.     As  I  wonder 

[96] 


A  Corner  of  the  Market 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

whether  the  women  of  a  harem  really  live  behind 
those  well-barred  panes,  looking  up  I  see  a  face  in- 
stantly withdrawn.  But  near  by  a  court-gate  swings 
temptingly  open,  and  I  step  within;  a  long  blue 
house,  whose  overhanging  upper-story  is  adorned 
with  richly  framed  Moorish  windows,  shuts  in  a 
stone-paved  court.  Under  the  stairs  ascending  to  the 
Odalik — the  women's  apartments — and  along  the 
walls,  gayly  covered  divans,  with  a  luxury  of  Ori- 
ental cushions,  invite  to  repose.  A  coif ee-tray,  with 
half -emptied  cups,  rests  on  a  low  tabouret,  from  un- 
der which  peeps  a  pair  of  gold-wrought  slippers, 
dainty  enough  to  cause  Cinderella's  despair.  A 
young  woman  is  coming  down  the  steps,  her  slender 
fingers  trailing  the  balustrade,  her  face  turned  away, 
but  I  mark  the  grace  of  her  figure,  the  amber  tones 
of  her  full  neck,  the  glint  of  gold  upon  her  gorgeous 
henna-dyed  hair.  How  I  should  have  loved  to  brave 
the  glance  of  those  dark  eyes !    .    .    . 

The  life  and  death  of  Mostar  centres  round  its 
mosques,  beside  whose  snowy  minarets  cypress-trees, 
like  sombre  twins,  stretch  up  their  sable  forms: 

Noirs  soupirs  de  feuillage  elances 
Vers  les  cieux. 

[98] 


;■'■■- 

''A/'f 

y  /'''■ 

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7          -*  /       < , 

V 

C:     , 

i 

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^       ^.^ 

, 

,\ 

■  ^ 

,/ 

1 

-^'k 

•'    f'^--- 

/' 

f 

■m 

^' 

/    ' 

DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

In  their  shadows 
cemeteries,  not  re- 
mote Hke  ours,  nor 
saddened  by  uncer- 
tain thoughts,  Hft 
their  turbaned 

grave-  posts — vague 
shadows  of  the 
buried,  rising  from 
dank,  tangled 

grasses  and  creeping 
vines. 

No  peal  of  church- 
bell  summons  the 
''Faithful"  to 

prayer,  but  at  day- 
break, at  noonday, 
at  nightfall,  the 
muezzin,  an  elder 
with  long,  white 
beard,  climbs  high 
on    every   minaret, 

The  Saric  Mosque,  Mostar  and     from    itS     airy 

platform  sends  forth  his  plaintive  call,  echoed  back  and 

[99] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

forth,  until  the  very  air  vibrates  with  the  trembUng 
notes.  Just  as  the  last  echoes  are  lulling,  at  the 
mosque  entrance,  richly  painted  with  arabesques, 
you  will  see  rows  and  rows  of  shoes — for  who 
would  carry  the  dust  of  the  streets  upon  the  rugs 
that  face  toward  Mecca!  And  I  think  of  Ba- 
yazid,  far  off  in  Constantinople,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  mosque  that  bears  his  name,  reposing  in  his 
tomb,  covered  with  a  carpet  of  gold  and  silver, 
with,  under  his  head,  a  brick  kneaded  from  the  dust 
brushed  from  his  shoes  and  garments.  For  there  is 
in  the  Koran  a  verse  to  this  purport :  He  who  is  dust- 
soiled  walking  in  the  paths  of  Allah,  need  not  fear 
the  fires  of  Hades. 

The  narrow  ways  of  Mostar  are  a  perfect  "Mid- 
way." Every  turn  is  a  picture,  with  color  enough  to 
make  an  impressionist  go  mad  with  joy.  In  the 
shaded  angles  venders  of  roasted  chestnuts  sit  under 
tattered  awnings,  and  extol  in  strident  voices  the  hot 
quality  of  their  bursting  nuts.  Playing  about  the 
door-ways  are  beautiful  little  children,  wearing  pan- 
taloons a  la  Mameluke,  colored  like  flowers,  jonquil, 
cherry-red,  and  chrysanthemum  tones.  Slender 
youths,  with  tiny  pots  of  coffee,  run  about,  to  supply 

[100] 


■^4i 


Each  shop  contains  a  squatting  Turk  or  two 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

the  constant  demand  for  this  favorite  beverage. 
Turkish  women,  with  faces  veiled  in  opaque  muslin, 
drag  their  yellow  shoes  in  waddhng  steps — unshapely- 
figures  these,  muffled  in  the  ferajehs,  a  long  mantle, 
whose  scoop-shaped  hood  shadows  the  hidden  face, 
and  whose  sleeves  hang  empty,  thrown  back  over  the 
shoulders.  Tall,  bearded  merchants,  in  wadded 
gowns  and  fresh  white  turbans,  take  their  stately  way 
leisurely  through  the  crowd. 

Little  kiosques,  on  either  hand,  unfold  their  doors 
at  day-break.  Each  shop,  like  a  menagerie-cage, 
contains  a  squatting  Turk  or  two,  plying  a  special 
trade :  sandal-makers,  in  the  midst  of  glue  and  color- 
pots,  and  rows  and  rows  of  wooden  lasts;  a  dozen 
little  tailor-dens,  the  neatest  these,  hung  with  em- 
broidered vests,  their  occupants,  sitting  cross-legged, 
sewing  the  golden  braids ;  workers  in  repousse  silver, 
moulding  their  wad  of  clay  for  a  cushion,  on  which 
they  lay  a  sheet  of  silver,  then  hammer  it  into  a 
shapely  buckle.  And  one  shop,  more  spacious  than 
the  others  especially  attracts  me.  In  it,  carefully 
folded  on  shelves,  lie  gorgeous  woollen  and  cotton 
stuffs ;  in  cases  upon  its  walls,  gleam  silks  of  Broussa 
that  shine  like  moonlight  with  threads  of  silver,  gold- 

[102] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

embroidered  caftans  fit  for  the  shoulders  of  an  oda- 
lisque, gauzes  shot  with  lustrous  silks,  slippers  all 
wrought  with  threads  of  gold.  Long-fringed  rugs 
pile  high  in  corners ;  and  suspended  from  the  ceiling, 
brasses,  coppers,  coffee-pots,  and  water-vases,  sparkle 
and  shine  as  reflected  lights  play  upon  their  under 
surfaces.  About  the  door  hang  strings  of  fez,  red 
as  ripe  tomatoes,  big,  clumsy  clasp-knives,  with  bone 
handles,  children's  sandals,  painted,  and  hung  by 
dangling  tassels,  shaggy  sheep-skin  blankets,  leather 
pouches,  appliqueed  with  birds  in  red  and  black  or 
leaf -forms  in  brass,  scarfs  of  purple,  blue,  and  green, 
whose  screeching  colors,  you  may  be  sure,  are  not  of 
Turkish  origin.  And  back  of  all  this  confusion,  in  a 
filtered  half-light,  sits  a  patriarch,  white-turbaned, 
with  a  face  of  passive  fatality,  his  eyes  fixed,  his  eagle 
nose  hooked  over  a  long,  white  beard,  his  lean  cheek 
bronzed  and  withered,  and  his  transparent  fingers, 
like  a  bird's  claw,  clutched  over  a  never-neglected 
pipe. 

And  now  we  cross  the  great  stone  bridge — a  bridge 
so  famous  that  from  it  Mostar  took  its  name.  With 
a  single  span  it  leaps  from  rock  to  rock  over  the  deep- 
sunk  Narenta,  even  as  the  heavenly  bow  throws  wide 

[103] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

over  the  earth  its  radiant  half  circle.  Two  massive 
watch-towers  threateningly  guard  its  narrow  way 
upon  whose  steep  incline  the  ponies  stumble,  and  the 
women  bend  double  under  their  heavy  loads.  As  we 
reach  the  centre  of  the  arch,  leaning  over  the  parapet, 
the  head  grows  giddy  as  our  glance  falls  far  below 
to  where  the  circling  waters  of  the  river  foam  in 
never-ceasing  eddies.  At  the  far  end  of  the  bridge, 
passing  beneath  a  high  arched  gate,  where  a  bronzed 
beggar  in  filthy  rags  stretches  out  a  mummied  hand, 
we  enter  the  poorer  quarters.  The  kiosques,  less  at- 
tractive perhaps,  are  more  crowded  with  busy 
throngs.  Vegetable- venders  and  fruit-merchants 
occupy  the  stalls,  beside  butcher  shops  where  ox 
tongues,  fatted  pork  legs,  and  bloody  sheep's  heads 
hang  in  abhorrent  array. 

Here  the  pleasance  ends.  An  isolated  booth  or 
two  straggle  on,  but  the  impression  quickly  changes, 
and  we  find  ourselves  in  the  open  country  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Narenta.  Shadows  of  feathery  willows 
play  upon  her  swirling  waters;  the  great  bridge 
swings  high  its  slender  limbs  out  of  the  depths  and 
sweeps  its  graceful  curve  in  air;  gray  stone  roofs 
lean  one  upon  the  other,  and  minarets,  white  and 

[104] 


Mostar  from  the  Narenta 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

needle-like,  punctuate  the  life-centres;  high  on  the 
hill-side  scintillate  the  gilded  domes  and  spires  of  the 
Greek  Church,  and  back  of  all  these  varied  forms  the 
mountains  tower,  preserving,  untouched  by  modem 
life,  this  picturesque  bit  of  the  Orient. 


[105] 


Ill 

RAGUSA  AND  CATTARO 

A  FTER  leaving  the  Trebisnjica  with  the  moon 
Z-^  shining  on  its  waters  or  hiding  behind  the  rac- 
•^  ■^  ing  clouds,  our  train  crossed  the  mountains, 
then  corkscrewed  in  wide  loops  down  the  peaks.  Far 
below  in  fathomless  hollows  lay  villages,  slumbering 
on  hill-tops,  with  here  and  there  a  light  gleaming 
from  a  tardy  window.  Villas  along  the  Ombla  filed 
by  in  ghostly  procession  and  we  stopped  at  Gravosa. 
It  is  almost  midnight.  It  has  rained,  but  the  night 
air  is  soft  and  fresh.  Other  carriages  starting  with 
ours  run  a  mad  race  along  the  road.  The  horses,  their 
heads  toward  home,  take  the  hills  at  a  trot  and 
descend  at  a  gallop.  Vague  forms,  half  seen  in  the 
misty  moonlight,  speed  by :  pointed  cypress  tops  and 
many-fingered  pines;  the  tall  shafts  of  aloes;  over- 
hanging fig  boughs ;  a  belfry  framing  in  a  big,  black 
bell,  narrow  stairs  climbing  into  the  night ;  on  the  one 
hand  conscious  of  the  mountains,  on  the  other,  of 
precipices  and  the  sea,  the  sound  of  whose  tossing 
surf  comes  faintly  to  our  ears.     Suddenly,  a  dark 

[106] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

passage  under  over-arching  boughs  and  the  horses' 
hoofs  strike  hollow  on  a  bridge.  Above  us  a  mitred 
saint,  white  and  ghostlike,  nods  from  a  niche  on 
mighty  city-walls.  A  black-mouthed  outer  gate 
gulps  us  in  and  we  descend  a  steep  incline,  turn  a 
sharp  angle  and  descend  again;  another  angle  and 
another  gate,  again  through  frowning  walls  and  we 
have  passed  the  impregnable  defences  of  Ragusa  and 
rattle  over  her  paving-stones. 

The  moonlight  floods  the  long  Stradone,  flanked 
by  rows  of  palaces,  shutters  drawn,  asleep ;  no  living 
being  stirs  in  all  the  silent  street. 

Even  the  morning  sunlight  fails  to  dispel  the 
strange  impression  of  our  midnight  arrival,  for  the 
morrow  reveals  Ragusa  of  to-day,  still  a  perfect 
vision  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Its  stone-paved  streets, 
narrow  as  hallways,  squeeze  between  high  houses  with 
heavily  grated  windows.  Not  a  stone  has  budged  in 
centuries — nothing  new  has  been  erected  and  no- 
where is  a  sign  of  decay.  Its  walls  and  towers  girdle 
it  intact.  It  is  the  only  city  that  I  know  where  sol- 
dier-life still  peoples  the  mediaeval  walls ;  where  sen- 
tries pace  the  crenelated  towers  and  sentinels  stand 
guard  at  every  gate.     Its  massive  bastions  house 

[107] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

whole  regiments;  its  moat,  converted  to  a  military 
road,  resounds  with  the  tramp  of  marching  feet,  and 


In  the  Val  d'OmbIa 

the  drum's  beat  and  bugle's  call  echo  back  and  forth 
between  reverberating  walls. 

But  in  spite  of  her  martial  appearance  Ragusa 
has  always  been  a  peace-loving  town.  Her  citi- 
zens were  a  wily  race  and  built  her  giant  walls 
and  towers  not  so  much  from  warlike  motives  as  to 

[108] 


Mincctta  Tower,  Ragusa 


The  Market-place,  Ragusa 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

protect  their  purses.  When  Venice  was  strong  they 
courted  her  favor ;  when  the  Sultan  waxed  powerful 
and  knocked  at  her  gates,  her  envoys  knew  how  to 
curry  favor  with  him  by  paying  heavy  tributes.  In 
peace  her  commerce  flourished  and  her  people  be- 
came rich  and  powerful,  so  that,  despite  the  deviation 
of  maritime  trade  from  the  Adriatic  to  other  chan- 
nels, she  outlived  her  more  powerful  sister  republics 
of  G^noa  and  Venice.  She  borrowed  her  arts,  her 
institutions,  and  her  government  from  the  latter  city. 
Her  "Rector"  corresponded  to  the  Doge,  her  Small 
Council  duplicated  the  Council  of  Ten,  the  architec- 
ture of  her  palaces  is  Venetian  Gothic,  Titian's  Ma- 
donnas decorate  her  churches,  bronze  giants  strike  the 
hours  in  the  Campanile,  and  even  flocks  of  fat  pi- 
geons, as  in  San  Marco,  feed  by  public  charity  in  the 
piazza.  The  worst  blow  to  her  independence  was  not 
struck  by  the  hand  of  man.  In  1667  a  terrific  earth- 
quake destroyed  half  her  houses  and  killed  4,000  of 
her  people,  and  soon  after  another  calamity  overtook 
her,  the  burning  of  the  church  of  her  patron  saint, 
St.  Biagio,  whose  silver  statue  was  spared,  as  by  a 
miracle,  by  the  flames. 

In  Ragusa  we  alwaj'^s  felt  we  were  assisting  at  a 
[110] 


The  Stradone  and  Guard-house,  Ragusa 


'^-v.n* 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

play.  In  the  Plaza  there  was  the  scene  by  the  foun- 
tain, bright  with  masks  and  dolphins,  with  cupids 
and  jets  of  sparkling  water,  where  the  pigeons  love  to 
bathe;  where  the  girls  come  trooping  in  their  rib- 
boned shoes  and  snowy  stockings  and,  as  they  laugh- 
ingly gossip  and  draw  their  pails  of  water,  a  little 
knot  of  soldiers  at  the  guard-house  near  by  sum  up 
their  charms  and  pick  the  prettiest. 

There  was  the  scene  at  dusk,  among  the  defences 
of  the  Porta  Ploce,  where  giant  walls  and  battle- 
mented  towers  frown  down  on  moated  gates  and  bar- 
bicans, where  villanous-looking  Turks  skulk  in  the 
shadows  driving  shaggy  cattle  and  flocks  of  cluck- 
ing turkeys. 

And  on  the  Stradone,  Ragusa's  principal  street, 
there  was  the  scene  in  Michele  Kiri's  shop,  a  cave- 
like place  whose  ogive  door  does  triple  duty — en- 
trance, window  and  show-case.  As  we  poke  our 
heads  into  its  dark  recess  our  eyes  grow  wide  with 
wonder  like  Aladdin's  as  he  rubbed  his  lamp.  A 
group  of  Albanians  sit  cross-legged  on  low  benches 
stitching  gold  and  silver  braids  on  clothes  of  green 
and  blue.  Around  the  walls  hang  rows  and  rows  of 
caps  and  coats  and  vests  thick  with  silk  embroideries^ 

[112] 


Vestibule  of  the  Rector's  Palace,  Ragusa 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

surtouts  of  scarlet,  stiff  with  golden  arabesques  and 
cordings,  the  fleecy  marriage  robes  of  Montenegrines, 
of  softest  camel's  hair  and  set  with  gems,  long, 
wadded  crimson  gowns,  such  as  mountain  princes 
wear  on  state  occasions.  In  cases,  jeweled  flint-lock 
pistols  gleam  and  swords  and  daggers  with  Toledo 
blades  and  hilts  of  beaten  silver.  Long-barreled 
guns  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl  lie  by  great  leathern 
belts,  studded  with  carnelians  encircled  by  filigree, 
the  wealth  of  a  mountain  borderland,  where  on  fete 
days  each  man  wears  his  fortune  on  his  back ;  riches 
upon  riches  like  a  dream  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  till 
one  thinks  to  wake  and  find  it  vanished. 

And  at  night  there  were  the  scenes  of  humbler  life 
in  dingy  wine-shops,  where  smoky  oil-lamps  cast  un- 
certain lights  among  the  purple  wine-kegs  and  lit  up 
rows  and  rows  of  odd-shaped  bottles.  Amid  the  flick- 
ering shadows,  a  group  of  contadini  gather  around  a 
comrade  and  his  gusla — a  primitive  guitar — and, 
grinning,  listen  as  he  chants  the  wondrous  deeds  of 
Marko  Kraljevic,  varying  the  warlike  tale  with  many 
a  joke  and  note  of  merriment. 

But,  best  of  all,  there  was  a  quiet  afternoon  spent 
in  an  old  Franciscan  convent,  when  the  Superior,  a 

[113] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

charming  man  of  middle  age,  took  me  through  cor- 
ridor and  cell,  through  the  library  stocked  with  rare 
manuscripts  and  parchments;  through  the  brothers' 
court,  shaded  by  palms,  vine-grown  and  redolent  of 
orange-blossoms;  and  to  the  refectory,  where  with 
his  own  hand  he  brewed  me  a  cup  of  Turkish  coffee 
— "as  a  souvenir,"  he  said.  And  he  showed  me  with 
pride,  in  the  old  church,  an  organ,  on  which  he  played 
most  beautifully,  and  he  told  me  that  the  instrument 
— pipes  and  stops,  key-board  and  bellows — had  just 
been  made  in  his  own  convent  by  one  of  the  cunning 
brothers ! 

What  charming  days  we  spent  in  quiet  old  Ragusa, 
in  the  genial  warmth  of  her  southern  sun  shining 
hot  on  the  amethyst  sea!  What  joy  to  sit  upon  our 
porch  and  over  the  pine-tops  see  the  green  walls 
frowning  and  the  great  mass  of  San  Lorenzo,  pi- 
geons wheeling  round  its  casements,  brood  over  the 
open  sea,  stretching  blue  and  tender  away  and  away 
to  where  it  marries  the  sky ! 

THE  BOCCHE  DI  CATTARO 

A  NAREOW  passage  between  two  formidable  forts 
and  the  heavy  waters  of  the  open  sea,  dashing  in 

[114] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

foam  on  rocky  crags,  are  still  as  if  by  magic,  and  we 
glide  into  a  land-locked  bay.  Ahead  of  us  moun- 
tains tower.  A  wondrous  pearly  light  flitting 
through  overhanging  clouds  faintly  tinges  their  high- 
est crags  with  silver.  Down  by  the  water,  Castel- 
nuovo's  pink  roofs  nestle  snug  among  fields  and  or- 
chards, and  above  forests  of  oak  and  pine  darken  the 
slopes.  To  the  right  a  narrow  strait  leads  to  a  second 
bay.  But  just  at  the  entrance  our  steamer  stops,  and 
a  flat  barge  swings  alongside  to  take  off  an  officer 
and  his  horse.  As  we  wait,  twilight  quickly  creeps 
upon  us,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  mountains  are  but 
huge  silhouettes  dimly  outlined  against  the  darken- 
ing sky.  I  know  of  nothing  more  provoking  than  to 
pass  at  night  a  place  that  one  desires  to  see ;  but  now- 
adays, when  the  traveler  is  subservient  to  the  means 
of  transport,  and,  like  a  lifeless  object,  is  but  an  ac- 
cessory to  the  voyage,  these  mishaps  are  not  of  rare 
occurrence. 

The  sound  of  music  suddenly  surprises  us,  and,  on 
turning  a  bend,  we  see  a  blaze  of  myriad  lights — an 
Austrian  squadron  anchored  in  Teodo  Bay,  the  band 
playing  for  dinner  on  the  flag-ship. 

And  now  all  is  dark  again — the  mountains  so  close 
about  us  that  stars  only  twinkle  straight  above  our 

[115] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

heads.  At  ten  o'clock  the  engines  stop,  and  the  rattle 
of  chains  and  windlasses  tells  us  we  are  docking  for 
the  night. 

Next  morning,  as  we  go  on  deck,  we  are  lying  at 
Cattaro.  On  every  hand  great  mountains,  bare  and 
precipitous,  hedge  us  in.  Were  it  not  for  the  thou- 
sand-ton steamer  on  which  we  stand,  we  should  fancy 
ourselves  in  a  mountain  lake — a  lake  as  grand  as 
Como,  yet  sterner,  more  like  Lugano  perhaps,  and 
quite  as  majestic  as  a  Norwegian  fjord.  The  butting 
cliffs  of  the  Pestingrad  rise  4,000  feet  above  our 
heads.  On  one  of  its  great  buttresses,  scarred  by 
walls  and  bastions,  perches  a  mediaeval  fortress,  an 
impregnable  castle  protecting  the  little  town  nestling 
closely  under  it. 

Cattaro,  intrenched  behind  grim  walls,  hums  with 
early  morning  life,  and  the  markets  and  bazaars 
swarm  with  Montenegrins  and  Albanians  driving 
bargains  with  Herzegovinians  and  swarthy  Turks, 
for  Cattaro  is  a  focal  point  in  West  Balkan  life. 

After  we  had  "done"  the  town,  the  Leda's  captain 
greets  us  and  proposes  a  morning  drive.  A  coach- 
man is  easily  found,  a  bargain  struck,  and  soon  we  are 
rolling  along  toward  the  Catene.  On  the  sheltered 
riviera  the  vegetation  is  most  luxuriant.     Even  in 

[116] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

these  early  days  of  November,  heliotrope  and  tube- 
roses mingle  their  heavy  perfume  with  the  scent  of 
mignonette  and  wild  jasmine.  Orange  and  lemon 
trees  thrust  their  ripening  fruit  over  the  garden  walls 
of  old  Venetian  palazzi  on  whose  wide  balconies 
oleanders  bloom.  Pepper-trees  and  acacias  throw 
feathery  shadows  on  tiny  rock-bound  ports  where 
fishermen  are  mending  their  nets.  All  along  the  way 
we  breathe  the  balm  of  the  rich  southern  air,  the  sweet 
fragrance  of  the  flowers,  the  stem  grandeur  of  the 
ever-present  mountains  whose  pearly  summits  all  but 
lose  themselves  in  the  opalescence  of  the  sky. 

The  Catene  is  a  narrow  strait,  so  called  because  it 
could  be  closed  by  means  of  chains  in  time  of  need. 
It  connects  the  three  main  waterways  of  the  Bocche 
and  affords  a  comprehensive  view  of  all  three:  the 
Bay  of  Teodo,  ample  and  enclosed  by  rolling  hills; 
the  Bay  of  Risano,  a  limited  cove  shut  in  by  moun- 
tains almost  5,000  feet  in  height,  and  lastly,  the  Bay 
of  Cattaro,  largest  and  grandest  of  all.  In  front  of 
Perasto,  lying  among  orange-groves  at  the  foot  of 
Monte  Cassone,  two  tiny  islets,  poised  like  caravels 
upon  the  water,  bear  the  island  churches  of  San  Gior- 
gio and  the  Madonna  dello  Scapello. 

On  a  moody  afternoon — sunshine  alternating  with 
[117] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

deep  shadows  and  flecks  of  rain — we  drove  up  the 
Cettinje  road.  Until  this  century  the  only  road  con- 
necting the  Montenegrin  capital  with  the  coast 
wound  in  sharp  zigzags  down  the  flanks  of  the  Pes- 
tingrad  and  ended  in  the  ravine  behind  the  castle  of 
Cattaro.  Sixteen  years  ago  the  Austrian  govern- 
ment, recognizing  the  impracticability  of  this  old 
road,  constructed  a  new  one,  a  triumph  of  road- 
building,  so  wonderfully  engineered  that,  though  it 
mounts  to  an  altitude  of  4,000  feet  in  a  distance  of 
twenty  miles,  horses  can  trot  up  nearly  all  its  grade, 
and  Cettinje,  thirty  miles  away,  can  be  reached  in 
five  or  six  hours. 

We  first  ascend  between  the  walls  of  vineyards, 
but  soon  gain  more  open  vistas.  Oaks  and  dark- 
green  laurels  and  feathery  olive-trees  grow  among 
the  granite  rocks.  Pomegranates  on  golden  trees 
burst  their  thick  peels  and  spill  their  crimson  fruit, 
spoiling  to  be  plucked.  But  soon  the  trees  are  left 
behind  and  only  dry  moss  clings  to  the  bare  cliff's. 
The  diligence  from  Budua  comes  rumbling  down  the 
road,  drawn  by  well-groomed  horses,  a  trim  vehicle 
in  a  fresh  coat  of  yellow  paint,  with  a  smart  coach- 
man on  the  box.    Girls  pass  by  astride  of  little  moun- 

[118] 


DOWN  THE  DALMATIAN  COAST 

tain  ponies;  women  troop  townwards,  bearing  great 
bundles  of  fagots  on  their  heads;  and  now  another 
caravan  comes  into  view,  this  time  the  Montenegrin 
coach  from  Cettinje,  a  dingy,  rattle-trap  affair  full 
of  people  and  followed  by  a  mail-wagon  and  an  extra 
horse,  a  deplorable  contrast  to  the  bright  Austrian 
stage  we  had  just  passed.  A  court  personage  in  an 
antiquated  landau  follows  close  behind. 

Up,  up  we  climb,  alwaj^s  over  the  same  smooth, 
broad  road,  doubling  in  zigzags  back  and  forth  up 
the  mountain's  flanks.  At  each  turn  the  Bay  of 
Cattaro  drops  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  hollow,  the 
town  becoming  a  mere  plain  spread  out  beneath  us. 
A  longer  stretch  of  straight  road  and  we  reach  a 
frontier  fortress.  Here  five  ways  divide,  but  still 
we  take  the  upper  one.  Presently  from  the  top  of  a 
rise  we  see  over  the  Vrmac  and  a  glorious  panorama 
unfolds  itself.  Far  below  the  marshy  grain-fields  of 
the  Zupa  shelve  to  the  glimmering  waters  of  Teodo 
Bay,  where  floats  the  Austrian  squadron,  a  battle- 
ship, three  cruisers,  and  an  ugly  fleet  of  torpedo- 
boats.  Around  us  on  commanding  bluff's  earthworks 
and  masked  batteries  tell  us  we  are  on  the  Austrian 
frontier.    And  now  another  turn  and  another  view, 

[119] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

this  time  toward  Budua  and  the  sea,  whose  cahn 
horizon  shows  level  above  jagged  hill-tops. 

Always  the  same  up-grade,  always  the  same  zig- 
zags cut  in  the  mountain's  flanks,  always  the  same 
broad  road,  and  now  everything  drops  below  the  eye 
— the  great  sweeping  clouds  are  free  above  our  heads, 
the  mountain-tops  on  a  level  with  the  horizon,  the 
valleys  lie  like  topographical  charts  beneath  our  feet 
and  the  three  great  bays  of  the  Bocche — calm  and 
glittering — sleep  peaceful  in  the  mountain-hollows. 
Evening  mists  thicken  far  below,  long  shadows  creep 
up  the  mountain-sides,  the  clouds  gather  close  about 
our  heads,  and  suddenly  a  burst  of  glory,  a  ray  of 
the  dying  day,  flashes  through  a  cloudy  rent,  flush- 
ing the  glaring  flanks  of  the  Pestingrad  deeper  and 
deeper,  till  they  glow  like  burnished  copper  against 
an  inky  cloud — a  fitting  finale  to  this  incomparable 
drive  I 


[120] 


CATTARO  TO  NAPLES 

A  TRANSITION 


CATTARO  TO  NAPLES 

A   TRANSITION 

WE  had  lingered  in  Cattaro  three  days  while 
the  Leda  changed  her  cargo.  On  the 
afternoon  of  the  third  day,  long  files  of 
horses  from  the  Montenegrin  pastures  came  down  the 
mountain  side — dwarfish,  long-haired  beasts  with 
sullen  tempers  and  ugly  eyes.  File  by  file,  with 
many  a  tug  and  push,  they  were  urged  up  the  gang- 
plank, several  hundreds  stowed  away  between  decks 
and  as  many  more  tied  to  ropes  along  the  bulwarks. 

Before  dinner  we  pulled  out  from  the  dock  and 
soon  were  steaming  down  the  Bocche,  passing  in  re- 
view their  varied  beauties,  this  time  by  the  waning 
light  of  day.  Again  we  passed  San  Giorgio  and  its 
island  churches,  again  sighted  the  Austrian  ships  in 
Teodo  Bay  and  Castelnuovo  at  the  foot  of  its  lofty 
mountains,  then  carefully  threaded  the  narrow  strait 
and  plunged  into  the  open  sea. 

A  stiff  breeze  and  the  scurrying  clouds  high  over- 
head had  long  warned  us  that  all  would  not  be  as 
calm  outside  the  straits  as  within  them. 

[123] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

At  the  first  big  wave,  the  horses*  up  on  deck  began 
to  tumble  to  and  fro,  and  snort  and  kick,  until  their 
keepers  whipped  them  to  obedience.  The  breeze  kept 
freshening  as  night  drew  on  and  those  who  are  fa- 
miliar with  the  Adriatic  know  how  the  wind  can  blow. 
How  we  rolled  and  pitched  in  those  cross  seas !  How 
pitiful  in  the  fitful  gleams  of  light  to  see  the  beasts, 
so  closely  packed  that  they  could  not  fall  down  forced 
by  every  effort  to  keep  upon  their  feet  and  face  the 
waves  that  every  now  and  then  broke  over  the  bow! 
How  they  neighed  and  snorted  and  how  their  hoofs 
resounded  on  the  hollow  decks!  We  pitched  and 
rolled  till  sleep  closed  our  eyes. 

Next  morning  at  six  we  entered  the  Porto  Nuovo 
at  Bari.  After  a  hasty  breakfast  on  deck — the  ship 
smelt  abominably  with  its  freight  of  battered  horses 
— we  put  off  for  shore  in  a  small  boat.  There  were 
several  hours  to  pass  before  train-time,  so  we  took  an 
early  morning  drive  about  the  town.  What  could  be 
more  exhilarating  than  this  air  after  the  all-night 
blow? — exhilarating  until  we  reached  the  narrow 
lanes  clustered  thick,  haphazard,  round  the  Cathedral. 
Already  they  reeked  with  humanity,  with  venders, 
with  swarms  of  half -naked  children,  with  mongrel 

[124] 


CATTARO  TO  NAPLES 

curs  and  dirty  cats,  and  we  were  glad  indeed  to 
emerge  once  more  into  the  newer  Borgo  whose 
broad,  straight  streets  lead  to  the  railway-station. 


Piazza  Massari,  Bari 

Soon  our  slow-going  train  was  skirting  the  Apulian 
coast.  How  quickly  the  sea  had  calmed!  What  a 
moody  creature  the  Adriatic  is,  frowns  and  smiles 
succeeding  each  other  upon  her  face  as  frequently  as 
upon  the  features  of  the  hot-tempered  beings  who 
people  her  shores!  Now  she  lay  smiling,  soft  and 
tranquil  in  the  morning  light,  forgetful  of  her  anger 
of  the  night  before.  Already  the  white-sailed  fishing- 
boats  were  out  for  their  morning  catch. 

Turning  our  eyes  landward,  we  noted  the  richness 
[125] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

of  the  country :  the  fine  olive  plantations,  famous  for 
centuries  for  their  yield  of  olive-oil;  the  peach  and 
cherr}^  orchards  now  stripped  of  their  fruit;  the  figs 
with  shining  waxen  leaves  and  the  hedges  of  prickly- 
pear  (the  fichidindia)  in  the  full  bearing  of  its 
strange  red  bloom. 

Molfetta,  Bisceglie,  Trani  with  its  lofty  cathedral, 
succeeded  each  other,  their  houses  low,  flat,  painted 
in  delicious  pastel  tones  of  shell-pink  or  pale  ochre, 
and  so  oriental  in  appearance,  with  their  blank  sides 
pierced  only  with  the  tiniest  of  windows,  that  one  was 
not  at  all  surprised  to  see  the  population  living  on 
the  roof-tops. 

In  the  streets,  at  the  stations  or  along  the  field 
paths,  we  caught  glimpses  of  funny  two-wheeled 
sciarrahd — strange  etj^mological  corruption  of  "char- 
a-bancs" — the  universal  cart  of  the  country. 

What  romantic  associations  attach  to  this  province 
of  Apulia!  But  a  few  miles  hence,  near  Barletta, 
Hannibal  gained  his  signal  victor}^  at  Cannae,  slaying 
seventy  thousand  Roman  soldiers  and  taking  one  of 
the  Consuls  prisoner.  All  through  the  Middle  Ages 
the  fields  were  a  continual  battleground  twixt  Nor- 
man and  Savoyard,  Angevin  and  Spaniard.    Robert 

[126] 


CATTARO  TO  NAPLES 

Guiscard  lies  buried  in  Canosa ;  near  Andria,  Colonna 
and  Bayard  "sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,"  each  with 
his  thirteen  knights,  the  flower  of  chivalry,  fought 
for  the  possession  of  Barletta;  Manfred  left  his 
name  to  Manfredonia.  And  as  we  cross  the  great, 
treeless  expanse  of  the  Tavoliere  di  Puglia,  where  at 
this  season  hundreds  of  thousands  of  sheep  are  turned 
out  to  graze,  as  they  were  in  the  days  of  Rome,  we 
recall  the  great  Hohenstaufen,  Frederick  II.  as  we 
approach  Foggia,  his  residence. 

Here  at  Foggia  our  train  is  remade  and  we  start 
across  the  Italian  Peninsula,  leaving  the  Adriatic  be- 
hind us,  turning  our  faces  toward  the  mountains  up 
the  valley  of  the  Cervaro. 

We  regretted  that  we  could  not  stay  at  Benevento, 
so  rich  in  classic  souvenirs.  Instead  we  interested  our- 
selves, while  at  the  station,  in  the  modernity  of  a 
young  naval  officer  who  entered  our  compartment 
and  his  friends  wishing  him  god-speed  from  the  plat- 
form and  sending  "their  greetings  to  the  marquis." 

As  we  left  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  city,  crested 
on  its  hill-top  and  dominated  by  imposing  churches. 
Then  we  entered  a  veritable  vale  of  loveliness. 

In  the  midst  of  upland  fields  stood  rows  of  stately 
[127] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

plane-trees  chained  together  by  grape-vines,  golden 
in  the  warm  autumnal  sunshine,  lacing  themselves, 
across,  backward  and  forward,  one  above  another, 
until  they  formed,  as  it  were,  glowing  screens  of  flut- 
tering leaves  and  tendrils,  giving  unimaginable 
elegance  to  the  landscape  and  at  once  recalling  Gau- 
tier's  charming  description  wherein  he  likens  them 
to  a  bacchante-choir,  who,  in  mute  transport,  celeb- 
rating the  ancient  Lycaea,  joined  hands  to  scamper 
over  the  fields  in  an  immense  farandole. 

In  the  fields  under  them,  great  oxen,  slow  and  de- 
liberate, plowed  up  the  black,  rich  soil — true  oxen  of 
the  sun,  tawny  and  robust,  with  broad  foreheads  and 
long  curving  horns,  such  as  Homer  depicts  in  the 
Odyssey. 

And  now  we  descend  the  valley  of  the  Galore.  Tall 
stone-pines  begin  to  appear  among  the  poplars, — 
trees  shorn  of  all  their  lower  limbs,  but  branching  out 
to  great  breadth  at  the  top,  hanging  suspended,  as  it 
were,  like  green  islands  in  the  sky.  They  pace  the 
fields  in  lordly  avenues.  No  vine  dares  cling  to  the 
proud  trunks  that  bear  their  loads  alone. 

The  afternoon  wears  on;  the  shadows  lengthen. 
Down,  down  we  fly  now,  in  one  tunnel  and  out  of  an- 

[128] 


-^^•^'.v,T. 


Pace  the  fields  in  lordly  avenues 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

other.  On  a  height  below  a  church-spire  gleams  and 
houses  stepping  down  a  steep  hill-slope.  Below  them 
an  endless  plain — all  limits  lost  in  a  silvery  haze — a 
light  of  silver  with  only  the  stone-pines  distinguish- 
able by  their  dark  spots  of  color.  Ah,  for  another 
glimpse  of  that  fairyland,  that  mystic  land  of  charm ! 
But  no;  down,  down  we  go,  unrelentingly,  our 
whistle  blowing  a  continuous  warning  note  until  we 
reach  the  level  of  the  plain,  there  to  enjoy  a  similar 
peaceful  pastoral  scene  of  new-turned  earth  and 
fields  of  softest  green,  of  vines  festooned  from  tree 
to  tree,  of  stone-pines  standing  sentinel.  How  rich 
and  lush  it  all  is !  And  the  color  of  it  all— the  tawny 
browns,  the  russets  and  ochres,  the  scarlets  and 
golden  yellows ! 

The  evening  mists  begin  to  thicken.  A  filmy 
mountain  shape  appears,  but  faint  and  evanescent 
as  a  dream.    Is  it,  or  is  it  not? 

Yes,  at  least  it  is  Vesuvius,  volumes  of  smoke  pour- 
ing down  its  eastern  slope — ^no  scirocco — the  good 
weather  sign! 


[130] 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 


GIUSEPPE'S   CHRISTMAS 

A  NEAPOLITAN  STORY 

IF  you  should  ask  Giuseppe  whether  he  had  ever 
seen  a  Christmas-tree,  he  would  shake  his  head 
and  answer,  "No."  Though  he  knew  all  the 
saints  in  the  Italian  calendar,  if  you  should  ask  him 
who  Santa  Claus  was,  he  would  look  perplexed,  and 
vow  he  had  never  heard  of  him.  And  if,  continuing 
your  queries,  you  should  ask  what  he  liked  best  for 
Christmas  dinner,  he  would  snap  his  black  eyes,  and 
quickly  answer,  "Eels!" 

For  little  Neapolitan  boys  have  never  seen  a 
Christmas-tree  nor  even  so  much  as  heard  of  plum- 
pudding  and  turkey  with  cranberry  sauce.  And  dear 
old  Santa  Claus  never  ventures  as  far  south  as 
Naples  for  fear  the  icicles  would  melt  off  his  long 
white  beard,  and  his  fleet  reindeer  would  suffocate 
in  the  unwonted  heat ! 

But  Giuseppe  could  tell  you  all  about  the  hanca- 
relle  in  the  Toledo,  and  about  bombs  they  set  off  at 
midnight  on  Christmas-eve,  and  about  the  wonders 

[133] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

of  the  presepi  in  the  churches — for  he  had  his  way  of 
celebrating  Christmas  just  as  we  have  ours. 

And  now  for  several  weeks  as  he  plodded  through 
the  narrow  lanes  of  Naples,  selling  his  onions,  he  had 
been  watching  sure  signs  of  the  approaching  holi- 
days. Had  he  not  seen  the  zampognari  come  in 
from  their  mountain  homes — shepherds  dressed  in 
sheep-skins  with  their  legs  tied  up  in  thongs  of  hide, 
playing  bagpipes  in  the  streets,  while  little  boys 
clapped  their  hands  and  danced  before  them,  first  on 
one  foot,  then  on  the  other?  And  were  not  the  shops 
putting  forth  their  most  attractive  wares,  and  were 
not  the  pastry-cooks  making  little  boys'  mouths  water 
with  displays  of  most  amazing  cakes  and  tarts, 
dressed  mountains  high  with  candied  fruits  and 
icing?  And  now  little  booths  were  being  put  up 
along  the  Toledo.  Even  at  home  Aunt  Carmela  was 
rigging  up  an  extra  awning  and  dressing  her  vege- 
table shop  with  green  boughs,  and  making  it  attrac- 
tive by  hanging  about  the  door  bunches  of  small  red 
tomatoes,  and  yellow  grapes  and  poppone — green 
Sicilian  melons  tasseled  with  colored  tissue  paper. 

Giuseppe  was  a  little  onion-seller.  Having  no 
mother,  he  lived  with  his  Aunt  Carmela,  and  was  one 

[134] 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 


of  that  large  class  of  Neapolitan 
boys  who  go  about  the  streets 
bare- footed  in  tattered  rags,  sing- 
ing at  the  top  of  their  lusty  voices 
when  not  calling  out  their  wares, 
and  seemingly  as  happy  as  the 
sons  of  any  prince. 

And  now  the  day  before  Christ- 
mas had  come,  and  he  prepared 
to  set  off  even  earher  than  usual, 
and  with  a  longer  string  of  onions. 
But  just  as  he  was  leaving  the 
shop.  Aunt  Carmela  called  him 
back  and  said :  '  'Here,  take  this 
paper  and  these  seven  soldi,  and 
before  you  come  home  to-night 
go  to  the  monks  of  San  Gregorio 
and  they  will  give  you  a  torta  for  me." 

As  he  started  out,  the  tardy  winter  sunshine  was 
just  squeezing  into  the  narrow  streets,  and  Christmas 
was  in  the  very  air.  Every  cart  flaunted  flags  and 
colored  papers,  and  all  the  donkeys  and  shaggy 
horses  wore  sprigs  of  green  in  their  harness.  The 
air  was  alive  with  venders'  cries,  and  Giuseppe  had 

[135] 


A  Peddler 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

to  scream  his  '^cippole,  cippole"  else  he  could  not 
even  hear  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

But  the  onions  sell  well  this  morning. 

In  the  Via  Conte  di  Mola  the  people  are  all  his 
friends.  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  stops  often  to 
chat  with  his  comrades  who  sell  garlic  and  brooms 
and  goat's  cheese.  At  a  corner  sits  Zia  Amelia  shak- 
ing her  big  copper  tub  of  boiling  chestnuts.  She 
hails  Giuseppe  with  a  friendly  "giorno"  and  takes 
three  of  his  biggest  onions.  A  little  farther  on,  on  a 
high  table  outside  a  shop-door — holding  court  as  it 
were — sits  Benedetto's  white  poodle,  surrounded  as 
he  always  is  by  a  crowd  of  boys  and  girls  marveling 
at  his  curly  white  coat.  And  to-day  an  organ-grinder 
is  playing  gay  tunes,  and  all  the  children  are  dancing, 
and  the  half -shaved  poodle  looks  majestically  down 
as  proud  as  a  king. 

How  happy  Naples  is!  It  is  hard  for  little  boys 
to  sell  onions  on  such  a  day,  but  Giuseppe  braces 
himself  up,  remembering  that  he  must  make  a  few 
extra  coppers,  for  was  n't  he  seven  and  almost  a 
man,  and  were  not  some  of  these  very  same  coppers 
to  help  buy  the  eels  for  dinner  to-night?  There,  near 
the  corner,  Donna  Gracia  is  filling  the  lamps  in  front 

[136] 


Donna  Gracia  Filling  the  Lamps 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 

of  the  Madonna — three  lamps  there  are  to-day,  and 
beautiful  new  paper-flowers.  And  oh,  good  for- 
tune! for  Donna  Gracia  buys  the  remainder  of  his 
onions,  and  he  jingles  ten  big  soldi  in  his  pocket. 
And  he  thanks  the  Madonna,  looking  smilingly 
down  at  him,  as  he  counts  his  wealth  and  then  hastens 
into  the  Toledo — the  main  street  of  Naples. 

What  a  bustle  in  the  great  thoroughfare !  As  far 
as  you  can  see  along  both  sidewalks,  range  banca- 
relle—gay  little  booths  covered  with  rickety  awn- 
ings, where  boys  and  girls  and  grown-up  people,  too, 
for  that  matter  can  buy  anything  in  the  world  for  a 
cent.  There  are  tin  bugs  that  fly  and  green  balloons 
that  squeak  and  knives  and  tiny  hersagUeri  with 
feathers  jn  their  caps  and  little  wax  Gesu  Bimhi, 
lying  in  cradles  shaded  by  parasols  of  pink  paper- 
flowers.  iVud  there  are  side-combs  for  little  girls' 
hair  and  brooches  and  crooked  horns  of  coral  to  keep 
away  the  evil  eye,  and  beautiful  pink  shells,  in  which, 
when  he  puts  them  to  his  ear,  Giuseppe  can  hear  the 
roaring  of  the  sea  just  as  you  can  down  on  the  Mer- 
gellina.  He  idles  along  fascinated,  as  who  would  n't 
be,  from  one  gay  booth  to  another,  until  suddenly  he 
finds  himself  in  the  sunshine  of  the  Piazza  Dante. 

[137] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

But  he  hardly  knows  it  to-day,  for  instead  of  the 
broad  open  space,  bare  and  desolate,  he  sees  a  weav- 
ing multitude  of  venders  and  purchasers — a  topsy- 
turvy of  crockery,  of  tinsmith's  wares,  of  blue-glass 
jugs  and  thick  tumblers.  Alighieri',  high  on  his 
pedestal,  his  chin  upon  his  fingers,  looks  solemnly 
down  on  the  restless  throng  in  the  same  aja'stere  man- 
ner as  when  he  walked  among  them  centuries  ago. 

But  Giuseppe  is  not  thinking  of  the  great  poet. 
His  little  mind  is  intent  on  that  torta  for  Aunt  Car- 
mela. 

From  the  crowded  Via  Tribunali  he  turns  into  the 
street  of  St.  Gregory  the  Armenian,  and  there  stands 
wide-mouthed  with  wonder.  Here  is  a  Christmas 
street  indeed!  All  along  its  narrow  way,  shops  put 
out  upon  the  paving  stones  richly  robed  Madonnas 
in  glass  cases,  and  such  lovely  Gesu  Bimbi  with  real 
curled  hair  and  golden  crowns  upon  their  heads.  On 
shelves  around  the  doorways  are  ranged  boxes  of 
strange  Eastern  Kings,  of  black  servitors  in  gor- 
geous attire,  of  shepherds  and  saints  and  peasants, 
and  camels  and  elephants.  Cows  and  donkeys  lie 
waiting  to  be  placed  in  the  manger.  Angels  fly 
about  the  ceilings  among  bunches  of  gayly  painted 
flowers. 

[138] 


What  a  bustle  in  the  great  thoroughfare  ! 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 

In  each  doorway  sits  a  young  girl.  Near  her  a 
glue-pot  steams  over  a  charcoal  brazier,  and  all  about 
lie  baskets  of  moss  and  bits  of  cork,  and  armies  of 
little  chalk  figures  ready  to  be  stuck  upon  the  rough 
grotto  standing  on  a  chair  before  her.  And  Giu- 
seppe's eyes  grow  wide  as  under  her  deft  touch  the 
rude  paste-board  grotto  with  its  triple  cave  is  trans- 
formed into  a  veritable  work  of  art.  Trees  grow 
upon  its  painted  mountain-tops.  Pink  castles  and 
shepherds'  huts  are  built  upon  its  shelving  roads. 
Moss  falls  in  soft  masses  to  break  the  harsher  lines. 
In  the  centre  grotto  the  Child  is  placed,  with  Mary 
and  Joseph  watching  over  it;  the  shepherds,  the 
Magi  gather  about.  In  a  side  cave  peasants 
make  merry  at  a  Christmas  feast.  And  now  the 
nimble  fingers  plant  gay  flowers  round  the  sleeping 
Child  and  the  presepe  is  finished. 

As  Giuseppe  wanders  down  the  street — so  slowly 
— he  sees  fond  mothers  buying  these  pretty  toys, 
and  he  thinks  of  the  happy  children  who  will  have 
a  presepe  all  their  own  that  Christmas-eve,  and  of 
the  tiny  toddlers,  the  youngest  of  the  family,  who 
will  light  the  Christmas  candles. 

In  one  shop  larger  than  the  others,  where  in  a  case 
upon  the  street  such  wonderful  wooden  zampognari, 

[139] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

dressed  in  real  clothes,  play  their  pipes,  he  sees  a 
priest  buying  a  presepe  for  a  church — each  of  its 
little  figures  made  with  love  and  care,  the  Eastern 
kings  in  velvets  and  satins,  the  peasants  in  old-fash- 
ioned knee-breeches  and  kerchiefs.  Lovely  lambs  lie 
upon  the  hillsides,  and  angels  hover  in  the  air. 

It  is  a  wonderland,  this  street,  but  once  again 
Aunt  Carmela's  errand  spurs  him  on,  and  with  a 
sigh  he  hurries  along  to  the  Gregorian  convent.  Its 
big  street-door  gapes  wide  open,  and  he  climbs  a  long 
broad  flight  of  steps  on  whose  soaring  vaults  angels 
on  clouds  and  bearded  prophets  are  painted.  The 
green  double  doors  of  the  convent  are  closed,  but  in 
each  is  a  little  barred  wicket  through  which  the 
monks  can  see  without  being  seen — for  these  good 
brothers,  who  spend  their  lives  in  cooking  for  the 
poor,  never  show  themselves  to  the  world.  At  either 
side  of  the  door,  in  niches,  revolve  beautiful  tables 
covered  with  domes  of  burnished  brass.  Giuseppe 
gave  Aunt  Carmela's  paper  and  the  seven  soldi  to 
an  old  woman  standing  by|  the  wicket,  and  she  told 
him  to  go  and  sit  down  among  the  men  and  women 
waiting  on  the  long  stone  bench  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs. 

[140] 


Here  is  a  Christmas  street  indeed! 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 

As  he  sat,  he  watched  with  wonderment  those  shin- 
ing brass  rotoli  revolve  by  invisible  means,  each  revo- 
lution bringing  round  a  mysterious  package.  As 
their  names  were  called,  old  men  and  young  girls, 
poor  women  and  little  boys,  would  receive  these  pack- 
ages— one  a  basket,  another  a  dish,  covered  with  a 


A  Donkey  Cart 

white  cloth,  others  loaves  of  well-baked  bread,  and 
others  platters.  And  he  wondered  what  that  mira- 
culous table  would  bring  around  for  him.  When  the 
old  donna  called  Aunt  Carmela's  name  he  stepped 
up  and  she  handed  him  a  low  basket  wrapped  in  a 
clean  white  cloth.  He  deftly  placed  the  basket  on 
his  head  and  trotted  down  the  long  broad  steps,  then 

[141] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

took  a  short  cut  home,  for  he  wished  to  be  in  time  to 
help  in  buying  the  Christmas  dinner. 

When  he  reached  his  aunt's  shop  she  greeted  him 
quite  affectionately,  having  had  a  prosperous  day. 
Then  she  uncovered  the  basket'  he  had  brought,  and 
he  saw  that  it  contained  a  beautiful  susamiella — a 
tart  covered  all  over  with  chocolate  and  sugar — a 
dish  that  little  Neapolitan  boys  are  very  fond  of  in- 
deed. When  she  asked  him  where  his  onions  were, 
he  proudly  produced  his  ten  soldi  and  handing  them 
to  her,  said:  "Here,  these  will  help  buy  the  eels  for 
dinner."  Aunt  Carmela  actually  patted  him  on  the 
head,  a  very  great  condescension  on  her  part,  and 
Giuseppe  was  very  proud,  I  can  tell  you. 

The  hottega  was  left  in  charge  of  a  cousin,  and 
Giuseppe  and  his  aunt  started  off  to  buy  the  Christ- 
mas dinner. 

Day  was  closing  and  the  narrow  streets  were  teem- 
ing with  a  busy  crowd  making  their  last  purchases. 
The  shop-windows  reeked  with  good  things  to  eat. 
The  butchers'  shops  displayed  rows  of  whole  lamb 
skinned  to  the  middles,  and  kids,  heads  down,  spitted 
on  sticks  of  wood.  In  one  store-window  Giuseppe 
was  fascinated  at  the  sight  of  a  little  sucking-pig, 

[142] 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 

roasted  whole,  of  a  crackly  brown  color,  lying  on  its 
stomach  with  a  golden  orange  in  its  mouth.  But  he 
knew  it  was  no  use  wishing  for  that  delicacy — that 
was  only  for  rich  boys.  In  the  wider  streets  and  at 
every  street-corner  market-stalls  had  been  erected. 
Vegetables  and  fruit  littered  the  sidewalks.  Women 
with  baskets  were  haggling  and  bargaining  over  tubs 
of  oysters  and  clams  and  sea-urchins  (which  an 
American  boy  would  n't  look  at,  but  which  Giuseppe 
smacked  his  lips  over) .  And  there  were  such  quan- 
tities of  fish  with  their  tails  tied  to  their  heads  so  that 
their  bodies  were  on  a  curve  and  their  great  red  gills 
stood  wide  open  to  show  that  they  were  fresh. 

But  the  things  that  interested  him  most  were  the 
endless  baskets  of  eels — squirming,  wriggling  eels, 
the  chief  delicacy  of  the  Neapolitan  Christmas.  How 
slippery  they  looked  in  their  low  flat  baskets,  and 
how  they  wriggled  when  the  man  tried  to  catch  them! 
Finally,  Aunt  Carmela,  after  much  bargaining,  de- 
cided upon  some  that  were  not  so  lively,  Giuseppe 
thought,  but  they  were  a  little  cheaper  than  the 
others.  The  vender  dexterously  threaded  them  one 
after  another  on  a  twisted  straw  and  Giuseppe  car- 
ried them  in  triumph  wriggling  home. 

[143] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  shop  it  was  night. 
The  busy  day  was  over,  so  the  vegetables  were 
brought  in  from  the  street  and  stowed  away  in  cor- 
ners between  the  furniture  and  under  the  beds. 

For  you  must  know  that  bed-room  and  fruit-store 
and  living-room  and  dining-room  and  kitchen  are  all 
one  in  Aunt  Carmela's  house,  as  they  are  in  the  home 
of  nearly  every  small  dealer  in  Naples.  The  vege- 
tables are  usually  arranged  about  the  door-way  on 
shelves  and  rickety  tables.  The  room,  having  no  win- 
dow, receives  its  only  light  and  ventilation  from  the 
glass  door,  shaded  by  muslin  curtains.  In  the  centre 
of  one  wall  an  open  fireplace  is  hung  with  sooty  pots 
and  pans  and  a  copper  vessel  or  two.  A  cupboard 
for  dishes  and  two  wardrobes  stand  in  corners.  The 
remaining  available  space  is  occupied  by  two  iron 
beds,  a  half-dozen  lame  chairs,  a  deal  table,  and  a  tub 
half -full  of  soapy  water.  At  the  foot  of  the  beds 
a  bureau  bears  upon  its  marble  top  all  the  finery  of 
the  poor  household.  Blue  glass  vases  and  a  cup  or 
two — too  fine  to  be  put  in  the  cupboard — stand  be- 
tween five-pronged  gilt  candelabra.  Against  the 
wall  range  three  glass  cases,  two  containing  artificial 
flowers,  the  third  a  figure  of  the  Virgin  and  Child, 

[144] 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 

before  which  an  oil-wick  is  always  burning,  for 
though  often  there  may  not  be  bread  in  the  house, 
there  is  always  oil  for  the  Virgin's  taper. 

To-night  the  dark  room  is  the  scene  of  much  activ- 
ity. The  fire  is  poked  up  in  the  chimney-piece.  The 
greasy  table  is  moved  near  the  door,  and  around  it 
are  ranged  the  rickety  chairs  and  several  fruit-boxes. 
For  Aunt  Carmela,  better  off  than  most  of  her  poor 
relatives,  has  invited  them  to  share  her  nine  o'clock 
Christmas  dinner — a  dinner,  you  must  understand, 
where  no  meat  is  permitted,  but  which  is  a  veritable 
orgy  of  fish  and  vegetables. 

While  Aunt  Carmela  is  busy  cooking,  Giuseppe 
spreads  a  fresh  cloth  on  the  table  and  puts  a  cracked 
oil-lamp  in  the  centre.  And  then  he  arranges  ten 
thick  plates  along  the  sides,  each  with  a  chunk  of 
bread  beside  it.  Knives  and  forks  are  few,  but  to 
make  up  for  them  there  are  many  bottles  of  dark-red 
wine. 

And  now  the  guests  begin  to  arrive  and  soon  are 
seated  around  a  great  steaming  dish  of  maccaroni  al 
pomidoro— the  children  propped  up  in  high-chairs, 
the  men  in  shirt-sleeves  with  their  caps  on  their  heads. 
After  the  pasta,  fisli  is  brought  on — haccala  fried 

[145] 


Br  ITALIAN  SEAS 

and  haccala  boiled — and  quantities  of  vegetables,  all 
stewed  together.  There  is  much  talking  and  much 
drinking  of  the  dark-red  wine.  Then  come  the  eels, 
fried  and  cut  in  pieces,  saluted  with  "ahs"  and  "ohs" 
and  rattling  of  plates,  and  everybody  begins  to  feel 
gay  and  drinks  more  wine.  Giuseppe,  who  had  been 
given  no  knife,  uses  his  pocket  clasp-knife,  as  do 
Uncle  Beppo  and  the  other  men,  and  he  feels  very 
warm  and  happy.  Then  Aunt  Carmela  brings  in  the 
oranges  and  nuts  and  figs  and  the  susamiella  from 
the  Gregorian  convent ;  and  as  Giuseppe  gulps  down 
his  great  big  slice  he  thinks  there  never  was  or  has 
been  such  a  feast  as  this ! 

But  the  warmth  of  the  room  and  the  weight  of 
this  unaccustomed  evening  meal,  combined  with  his 
long  walks  that  day,  were  too  much  for  the  little  fel- 
low. Even  Uncle  Beppo's  loud  voice  and  the  clink- 
ing of  the  wine-glasses  and  the  scraping  of  the  chairs 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  open.  So  he  threw  himself, 
dressed  as  he  was,  on  one  of  the  beds  and  soon  was 
sound  asleep.  Not  even  the  loud  laughter  nor  the 
rattle  of  the  lotto  numbers  as  they  fell  from  the  bag, 
nor  the  clink  of  the  coppers,  nor  the  scraping  of  the 
chairs  and  benches  as  the  diners  pushed  back  from 

[146] 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 

the  table  and  crowded  out  to  go  to  the  Midnight 
Mass,  locking  the  door  behind  them — none  of  these 
sounds  disturbed  his  weary  sleep. 


Two  zampognari  played  their  pipes 

But  in  his  dreams  he  heard  the  exploding  bombs 
and  fireworks  in  the  crowded  streets — ^the  pande- 
monium of  the  Naples  night— and  he  saw  such  won- 
derful visions!  There,  by  his  bedside,  two  zampo- 
gnari played  their  pipes,  and  he  watched  the  bags 
fill  up  and  the  old  fingers  wander  over  the  worm- 
eaten  keys,  and  he  dreamt  he  was  their  little  boy, 

[147] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

dancing  before  them  and  clapping  his  hands — danc- 
ing first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other.  And 
then  around  their  heads  there  grew  a  wondrous  light, 
and  in  the  light  he  saw  the  Madonna  smiling  so 
gently  at  him  and  the  Child,  while  angels  with  golden 
halos  flew  about  and  cherubim  and  Magi  came  with 
precious  caskets!    .    .    . 

Giuseppe  slept  very  late  on  Christmas-morning, 
but  even  when  he  awoke,  everyone  in  the  shop  was 
still  asleep.  For  all  Naples  is  tired  out  from  the 
festivities  of  Christmas-eve,  and  Christmas-day  is 
very  quiet. 

Giuseppe,  from  force  of  habit,  hunted  out  a  string 
of  onions  and  set  off"  on  his  daily  rounds.  But  to-day 
he  lagged  about  the  churches.  He  knew  that  within 
their  portals  the  presepi  had  been  uncovered.  In  his 
babyhood  his  dear  mother  had  always  taken  him  in 
her  arms  to  see  these  wonderlands,  and  when  he  was 
older  had  led  him  by  the  hand  and  pointed  out  their 
beauties.  But  now  he  had  no  dear  motl^r,  and  he 
was  a  man  and  must  look  out  for  himself. 

So  when  he  came  to  Santa  Maria  in  Portico,  he 
resolutely  ascended  the  stone  steps  to  the  open  door. 
But  there  sat  three  old  beggars,  and  one,  pushing 

[148] 


There  he  saw  a  wondrous  scene 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 

him  back,  said:  "Here,  piccolo,  out  with  yonr 
onions,"  and  he  timidly  went  back  a  step  or  two. 
How  he  longed  to  behold  what  everyone  else  was 
going  in  to  see!  Just  then  some  women,  with  their 
heads  tied  up  in  colored  kerchiefs,  came  clacking  up 
the  steps  in  their  wooden  pattens,  and  Giuseppe 
squeezed  in  after  them  unnoticed,  for  the  old  beggars 
were  too  busy  asking  for  coppers. 

And  then  he  found  himself  before  a  wondrous 
scene:  mountains  so  high,  as  high  as  Saint  Elmo,  he 
thought — covered  with  castles  and  strange  trees  and 
figures  as  big  as  life. 

He  felt  quite  at  home  in  the  great  church,  and  soon 
was  standing  by  the  candles  in  front  of  the  manger, 
saying  an  Ave  Maria.  There  was  the  Madonna  in  a 
great  cave,  and  back  of  her  a  donkey,  and  a  cow  as 
big  as  Uncle  Beppo's  that  he  takes  night  and  morn- 
ing through  the  streets  to  sell  the  milk.  The  Ma- 
donna is  dressed  in  a  long  pink  satin  gown  with  a 
blue  scarf  about  her  shoulders — blue  as  Giuseppe's 
own  blue  skies.  On  her  head  rests  a  golden  crown, 
and  at  her  feet,  on  a  big  wisp  of  real  straw,  lies  a 
lovely  Child  in  a  dress  of  white  and  gold— what  a 
pipk  little  Bimho  he  is !    Watching  over  him  stands 

[149] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

Saint  Joseph— Giuseppe's  own  patron  saint  in  a  gor- 
geous purple  robe — ^he  had  never  seen  so  elegant  a 
San  Giuseppe  before.  Above  the  entrance  to  the 
cave  flutters  a  half  circle  of  pink  little  cherubs,  and 
so  happy  they  look!  Above  them  larger  angels  fly 
out  to  proclaim  the  gladsome  tidings.  And  what  a 
black  man  is  kneeling  before  the  Infant  and  off'ering 
the  Virgin  a  basket  of  chestnuts !  Behind  him  comes 
a  contadina  in  a  lovely  dress  of  red  silk  brocade,  such 
as  the  fathers  hang  upon  the  church  pillars.  She  is 
bringing  a  basket  of  eggs,  and  has  upon  her  head  a 
white  kerchief  such  as  grandma  used  to  wear  when 
she  came  in  from  Castellamare.  What  a  funny  Uttle 
dog  follows  that  old  man  carrjdng  the  oranges ! 

Descending  from  the  mountains  come  the  black 
Kings  in  coats  of  gold,  with  great  turbans  on  their 
heads,  and  their  slaves  behind  them  are  laden  with 
golden  boxes — what  can  be  in  them?  And  there  are 
the  shepherds  who  saw  the  Star  and  more  people 
traveling  on  camels  from  far-off*  countries,  and  there 
are  castles  and  palm-trees  and  fairy  roads — all  so 
wonderful  that  Giuseppe's  little  neck  grows  tired 
looking  up  so  high.  And  there,  in  another  grotto, 
he  spies  an  old  blind  beggar,  near  a  wine-shop,  where 

[150] 


GIUSEPPE'S  CHRISTMAS 

a  lovely  donna  in  purple  satin  is  selling  sausages  and 
long  loaves  of  bread,  and  a  man  is  vending  cheese  of 
goat's  milk— oh,  how  Giuseppe  loves  that  cheese  and 
bread! 

Suddenly  he  sees  that  it  is  real  goat's  cheese  spread 
on  real  cabbage-leaves,  and  remembers  that  he  has  n't 


..    v^ 


A  Goatherd 

had  a  thing  to  eat  that  morning  and  feels  very  hun- 
gry. But  he  has  n't  sold  an  onion  yet,  and  there  's 
not  a  centesimo  in  his  pocket.  In  a  chapel  he  kneels 
before  San  Giuseppe's  altar  and  repeats  his  prayer, 
and  adds:  "And  oh,  San  Giuseppe,  if  you  could,  I  'd 
so  like  some  goat's  cheese,  for  I  'm  very  hungry." 
A  side  door  swings  open  and  Giuseppe  sees  a  ray 
[151] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

of  sunshine,  ^nd  out  he  goes  into  the  daylight  and 
raises  his  shrill  little  cry,  "cippole^  cippole."  The 
same  cry  answers  him  from  a  balcony  and  a  basket 
is  lowered.  And  there  in  the  basket  lies  a  soldo, 
which  he  exchanges  for  three  of  his  onions  and  off 
he  goes.  And  then  would  you  believe  it,  from 
around  the  corner  comes  a  man  with  a  flat  basket  on 
his  head  calling  fresh  goat's  cheese,  and  Giuseppe 
changes  two  of  his  centesimi  for  a  pat  on  a  cabbage- 
leaf.  "Oh,  San  Giuseppe  's  always  so  good  to  me," 
says  he,  as  he  puts  his  string  of  onions  down  on  the 
sidewalk.  Then  kneeling  beside  them,  he  pulls  out 
of  his  ragged  pocket  a  chunk  of  coarse  bread  upon 
which,  with  his  clasp-knife,  he  spreads  the  lump  of 
cheese — and  there,  in  the  sunlight,  he  eats  his  meagre 
little  Christmas  dinner. 


[152] 


SICILY 


SICILY 
I 

EASTER  TIDE 

IT  was  a  good  two  months  since  the  Cristoforo 
Colombo  had  brought  us  over  from  Naples,  since 
we  had  awakened  that  first  morning  to  find  our- 
selves in  Palermo's  beautiful  bay.  All  about  purple 
mountains  encompassed  the  fertile  Conca  d'Oro, 
rounded  like  a  vase  to  receive  the  sea  from  Monte 
Pellegrino,  Saint  Rosaly's  shrine,  on  the  one  hand, 
to  the  Catalfano,  bearded  with  giuncara,  the  Kvirei" 
poq  of  Theocritus,  on  the  other. 

These  two  months  had  been  given  in  the  usual  way 
to  a  study  of  Monreale  and  the  Capella  Palatina ;  to 
a  trip  to  Segesta;  to  Girgenti,  "most  beautiful  of  the 
cities  of  mortals";  to  Castrogiovanni,  the  Enna  of 
the  ancients,  home  of  Ceres  and  Proserpine ;  and  now 
we  found  ourselves  comfortably  settled  in  Taormina, 
with  an  apartment  of  our  own  standing  on  the  very 
wall  of  the  old  Naumachia.    Venere  ministered  to  all 

[155] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

our  wants — Venus  in  name,  though  not  in  looks, 
being  a  Sicilian  of  the  Norman  cast,  with  grey  eyes 


The  Cloisters  at  Monreale 


and  high  cheek-bones;  nor  did  she  in  character  re- 
semble the  fickle  Grecian  goddess,  being  but  a  good 
and  faithful  soul,  steadfast  and  worthy  and  devotion 
itself. 

[156] 


SICILY 

Our  living-room  opened  upon  a  terrace,  old  rose 
in  color,  with  a  marble  seat  at  either  end  and  potted 
aloes  at  the  corners.  Immediately  below  this  terrace 
lay  the  depths  of  the  Naumachia,  shored  up  on  its 
walls  of  Roman  masonry,  but  now  devoid  of  even  a 
vestige  of  water.  Instead  of  its  once  glassy  surface, 
darkened  by  reflections  of  surrounding  heights,  it 
now  showed  green  and  grassy  and  fragrant  with  the 
odor  of  lemon-trees  in  bloom,  whose  sweetness  on 
those  still  evenings  of  early  spring  arose  so  strongly 
to  our  windows  as  to  be  at  times  intolerable.  In  the 
afternoons  and  at  dusk,  a  shepherd  there  would  play 
his  pipes  as  he  watched  his  sheep  nibbling  in  cool 
shadows — notes  so  sweet  and  bird-like,  music  naive 
and  primitive,  such  as  Acis  learned  from  Pan  to 
play  to  his  Galatea. 

Beyond  this  lemon-grove  the  cliiF  dropped  sheer 
two  hundred  yards  to  the  level  of  the  glittering 
Ionian  Sea. 

Southward,  where  glistening  lines  of  sand  curved 
sharp  against  the  purple  waves,  the  ancient  plains  of 
Naxos  lay,  and  Acireale  bj'^  the  lava  islands  that  the 
blinded  Polyphemus,  roaring  in  his  rage,  hurled  at 
crafty  Ulysses.    Beyond  them  Etna  reared  its  lofty 

[157] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

head,  ten  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  stretching  its 
rich  dark  lava  fields  below,  its  craters,  bald  and 
bleak,  above,  and  covered  with  a  cloak  of  snow, 
whence  jagged  rocks  protruded,  like  tippets  on  an 
ermine  mantle,  while  about  the  summit  hung  its  filmy 
crown  of  smoke,  the  breath  of  Enceladus  imprisoned 
in  its  bosom. 

Northward  the  Greek  Theatre  settled  in  a  saddle 
of  the  hills,  and  beyond  it  loomed  the  mountains  of 
Taranto's  gulf  and  the  pale  Apennine  chain  dying 
in  the  point  of  Calabria. 

What  sunsets  we  enjoyed  over  this  gUttering 
Ionian  Sea!  At  times  its  wide  expanse  lay  green  as 
a  pale  emerald  and  again  lit  up  with  reflections  of 
turquoise  and  amethyst  or  grew  gray  and  misty  un- 
der the  humid  breath  of  the  scirocco^  changing  its 
color  like  a  chameleon  with  every  accident  of  atmo- 
sphere and  every  mood  of  wind  and  weather. 

And  now  the  early  Spring  began  to  manifest  it- 
self. Along  the  hedges  the  euphraise  displayed  its 
humble  corolla  and  in  the  grass  the  first  violets 
peeped  forth,  "pale  as  a  pair  of  unhappy  lovers." 
Then  we  found  the  aster  with  its  golden  disk,  the 
centaury  and  cyclamen  and  the  asphodel,  Bacchus's 

[158] 


SICILY 

favorite  flower.    The  bougainvillea  clothed  the  villas 
in  its  royal  purple  bloom. 


Pulpit,  Capella  Palatina,  Palermo 


Before  we  knew  it  Holy  Week  was  upon  us.  In 
turn  we  visited  the  different  churches  to  see  in  each 
a  crucifix  laid  upon  the  pavement  embowered  in 

[159] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

lilies  that  were  to  flower  mid  grains  of  wheat  ready 
to  sprout  on  Easter-day.  The  peasants,  especially 
children,  came  in  humbly  in  great  numbers  and, 
dropping  upon  their  knees,  kissed  the  rude  figures  of 
ivory  or  wood  and  drew  down  their  tiny  brothers  and 
sisters  to  do  likewise. 

The  past  few  days  I  had  been  reading  Renan's 
"Life  of  Christ"  and  was  finishing  it  on  Holy  Thurs- 
day. The  town  was  strangely  silent.  No  venders 
hawked  their  donkey-loads  of  oranges  and  vege- 
tables; no  carts  rattled  over  the  lava  paving-stones; 
not  even  a  footstep  echoed  between  the  high  stone 
walls. 

Suddenly  the  silence  was  broken,  for  at  the  far  end 
of  the  village  a  bell  began  to  toll,  slowly  and  solemnly 
— deep,  long-spaced  notes  at  equal  intervals:  a  fu- 
neral knell.  Then  came  the  tap  of  a  muffled  drum 
followed  by  distant  notes  of  a  dirge.  I  stepped  out 
upon  our  other  terrace,  commanding  a  view  of  Taor- 
mina's  single,  twisting  street.  Others,  like  myself, 
were  out  upon  their  balconies  or  at  their  windows 
and,  hushed,  all  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  end  of 
the  street  that  leads  to  the  Messina  gate.  There  at 
its  farthermost  extremity  a  slow-moving  procession 

[160] 


Tac 


SICILY 

came  into  view,  preceded  by  a  group  of  eager,  won- 
der-stricken children.    Choir-boys  with  lighted  can- 


>'^ 


"v*^. 


Fountain  of  the  Minotaur,  Taormina 


dies  led  the  way,  followed  by  a  gray-beard,  aged  and 
wrinkled,  clad  in  a  long  white  gown,  his  head  en- 
circled with  a  crown  of  thorns,  and  staggering  under 
the  weight  of  a  great  black  cross  inscribed  with  the 

[161] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

four  mystic  letters.  Behind  him  his  brotherhood, 
also  in  white,  followed  two  and  two.  Many  who  did 
not  wish  their  identity  known  in  the  charitable  work 
of  the  fraternity  had  drawn  their  pointed  hoods  down 
over  their  faces,  only  the  eyes  being  visible  through 
two  round  apertures;  others  had  their  caps  thrown 
back,  exposing  their  rough,  weather-beaten  faces 
that  Phoebus  had  scorched  to  parchment  with  his 
fierce  rays.  All  wore  capes  of  faded  crimson,  crowns 
of  thorns  and  halters  knotted  round  their  necks.  Six 
of  the  stoutest  carried  a  pitiful  Pietd — a  statute  of 
the  Virgin,  of  colored  wood,  life-size,  life-like  in  her 
misery,  her  hands  raised  in  agony,  a  sword  plunged 
in  her  heart  and  upon  her  knees  a  figure  of  the  cruci- 
fied Clu-ist.  Around  this  litter  clustered  groups  of 
peasants,  men  and  women,  who  from  time  to  time 
cast  furtive  glances  at  the  mournful  figure  and 
reached  out  their  hands  to  touch  the  wounds,  then 
kissed  the  tips  of  their  fingers. 

Following  the  Pietd  thus  carried  like  a  bier, 
walked  the  village  priest,  chief  mourner,  muffled 
in  a.  great  black  cassock  which  he  drew  up  to 
his  very  eyes  that  gleamed  piercingly  from  under 
the  broad  brim  of  his  shovel-hat.  After  him  trooped 
more  peasants  in  festival  attire,  but  so  mute,  so 

[162] 


Procession  on  Holy  Thursday 


SICILY 

down-hearted  in  their  sorrow  that  surely  no  one 
with  a  heart,  no  matter  what  his  rehgious  con- 
victions, could  fail  to  have  been  impressed  by  their 
simple,  heart-felt  demonstration  of  faith.  What  the 
humble  Galileans  felt  that  day  so  long  ago,  they  felt 
to-day,  not  needing  the  pomp  of  gorgeous  churches 
nor  the  spell  of  incense-laden  air  to  waken  their 
hearts,  but  feeling  their  sorrow  in  spite  of  the  open 
heaven  and  the  breath  of  the  fields  in  their  nostrils. 

We  followed  the  little  concourse  from  church  to 
church  and  at  each  the  crowd  grew  denser,  collecting 
as  it  passed  through  the  village.  Finally  at  San 
Domenico  the  procession  made  its  way  with  such 
great  difficulty  that  in  the  bustling  I  noticed  the  poor 
old  man  who  carried  the  cross,  vainly  striving  to  make 
his  way  to  the  church  door.  In  his  efforts  his  crown 
of  thorns  had  been  pressed  upon  his  forehead  and 
drops  of  blood  ran  down  his  face  and  through  his 
snowj'-  beard  on  to  his  crumpled  gown.  But  he,  ob- 
livious of  self,  pushed  on,  intent  only  on  the  mission 
he  was  accomplishing.  That  night,  so  they  told  us, 
he  slept  upon  the  cold  stone  floor  and,  when  asked 
why  he  did  not  occupy  his  bed,  rebuked  them  with 
the  answer: 

"Should  I  lie  higher  than  my  Master?" 
[163] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 


Early  Friday  morning  we  were  awakened  by  the 
sound  of  muffled  drums  and  saw  a  similar  procession, 
only  this  time,  instead  of  the  Virgin  wounded  in  the 
heart,  a  figure  of  the 
dead  Christ  was  car- 
ried in  a  glass  coffin 
from  church  to 
church. 

But  it  was  at  five  of 
that  same  afternoon 
that  the  great  pro- 
cession was  formed. 
Every  member  of  the 
brotherhoods  and 
every  nun  and  every 
peasant,  man  or  wo- 
man, carried  a  Ughted 
candle,  as  they  do  at 
high-class  frmerals. 
The  cortege  formed 

quite  as  on  the  day  before,  with  the  addition  of  several 
schools  of  boys  and  girls  carrying  their  silken  banners. 
From  these  schools  of  little  girls  in  white  a  dozen  had 
been  chosen  to  carry  the  twelve  symbols  of  the  Cruci- 

[164] 


The  Badia  Vecchia 


SICILY 

fixion: — the  whipping-post,  the  whip,  the  hammer 
and  the  pincers,  the  sponge,  the  lance,  the  seamless 
garment,  the  napkin  of  Saint  Veronica,  the  ladder, 
the  nails,  and  lastly  the  cross. 

Saturday  morning  a  carriage  drew  up  at  our  door 
to  take  us  up  the  Alcantara  valley,  for  we  wanted  to 
see  as  much  as  possible  of  the  people's  life  that  day. 

It  was  a  dubious  morning,  but  we  hoped  that  the 
sun  would  peep  forth  later,  and  that  Mercury, 
guardian  of  roads  and  journeys,  would  be  kind 
to  us. 

We  were  soon  winding  down  the  looped  road  that 
descends  from  Taormina  to  Giardini,  where  we 
found  the  little  street-altars  decked  for  Holy  Week 
^ith  sprouting  grain,  to  symbolize  the  Resurrection, 
and  draped  with  snow-white  sheets.  Then  we  crossed 
the  turbid  Alcantara,  swollen  and  yellow,  rushing 
down  to  Naxos  from  the  upper  mountain  valleys, 
and  followed  up  along  its  bank  through  a  rich  coun- 
try, planted  thick  with  vines  and  lemon-trees,  whose 
fruit  now  in  full  harvest,  lay  in  golden  pyramids 
upon  the  ground.  What  mountains  of  it  there  were, 
and  how  little  store  the  peasants  set  by  it!     Sicily 

[165] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

has  lost  the  market  for  its  lemon  crop.  California 
has  supplanted  it.  Lemons  that  used  to  bring  four 
times  as  much-  now  sell  for  two  or  three  francs  a 
thousand. 

It  is  the  same  old  story,  repeated  ad  infinitum. 
Sicily,  a  terrestrial  paradise  to  the  ancients,  the 
home  of  Ceres,  goddess  of  plenty,  the  granary  of 
Europe,  is  to-day  but  a  poor  land  where  the  peasant 
barely  ekes  out  his  subsistence.  Misrule,  abuse  of 
taxation,  lack  of  progress  and  lack  of  education  have 
been  its  persistent  enemies. 

Until  this  generation,  so  an  engineer  of  the  Gir- 
genti  sulphur-mines  told  me,  only  eight  per  cent,  of 
the  population  could  read  or  write,  and  even  now, 
with  compulsory  education  in  force,  only  twenty- 
five  per  cent,  are  educated.  The  law  is  a  dead  letter. 
It  cannot  be  enforced,  for  it  does  no  good  to  put  the 
parents  in  prison,  and  no  fines  can  be  collected  from 
the  penniless  peasants,  who  would  rather  turn  their 
boys  out  to  guard  the  goats  at  ten  cents  a  day  than 
send  them  to  school. 

They  work  the  fields  as  in  the  time  of  Adam, 
plowing  with  rude  wooden  plows  that  merely  scratch 
the  surface  of  the  earth,  where  a  good  steel  imple- 

[166] 


SICILY 

ment  would  easily  reach  virgin  soil.  The  result  is 
evident. 

The  Sicilian  for  years  has  been  quitting  his  fields, 
to  direct  his  energies  elsewhere.  This  question  of 
emigration  is  recognized  as  a  vital  one  in  Italy,  not  as 
a  simple  matter  of  jurisdiction  over  emigrants  or  pre- 
ventive measures  against  their  departure,  but  re- 
solving itself  into  this  question:  how  to  keep  the  im- 
mense capital  of  human  energy  which  every  year 
is  taken  from  the  mother-country  from  expending 
itself  for  the  benefit  of  others.  In  this  age,  when 
the  races  are  fighting  not  with  the  sword,  but  with 
the  pick  and  shovel,  each  realizes  that  everything 
that  goes  to  the  increment  of  the  neighbor  is  per- 
nicious to  itself. 

The  three  million  Italians  who  in  less  than  thirty 
years  have  left  their  native  fields,  made  sterile  by 
the  assessor's  tax,  to  substitute  agriculture  for  cattle- 
raising  in  the  Argentine  pampas,  to  plant  coffee  in 
the  depths  of  the  Brazilian  forests,  to  grow  the  vine 
and  orange  and  lemon  in  California  and,  even  in  the 
basin  of  the  Mediterranean  to  sow  grain  and  plant 
olives  in  Tunis  under  the  French  flag  and  construct 
the  dikes  of  the  Nile  for  the  English,  thus  to  redeem 

[167] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

ten  thousand  square  miles  of  arable  land,  have 
created  competition  to  their  own  home  industries, 
and  in  many  cases,  as  in  this  very  lemon-crop,  have 
completely  killed  their  country's  export  trade. 

As  an  intelligent  Italian  once  said  to  me:  "In  the 
conquest  of  the  earth,  the  great  feat  of  our  time, 
Italy  is  the  arm.  Others  think,  she  works;  others 
direct,  she  obeys;  others  become  rich,  she  remains 
poor." 

The  little  towns  along  our  route  showed  only  too 
plainly  the  pernicious  results  of  misrule:  half -aban- 
doned, poor  and  dismal  villages,  especially  so  that 
day  under  a  lowering  sky  that  threatened  rain  at  any 
moment. 

At  Kaggi  the  church-door  stood  open  and  music 
floated  forth  to  the  peasants  picturesquely  grouped 
under  the  porch.  We  looked  in  a  moment  to  watch 
the  sea  of  heads  in  yellow  and  cadmium  kerchiefs 
that  extended  from  the  door  to  the  altar,  where  the 
priests  were  chanting  in  a  cloud  of  incense. 

Then  on  the  road  again  we  admired  the  striking 
silhouette  of  Motta  Camastra,  perched  like  an  eagle's 
nest  high  among  the  cliffs.  And  now  the  first  big 
drops  of  rain  began  to  fall  and  we  put  up  the  carriage 

[168] 


t 


i3 


^^?av^^^ 


^^- 

i:;:-:'^';/'' 
->  -'^'u.^-^ 


"2^C 


'AVs 


--:V 


Perched  on  the  steep  hill-sides 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

top.  An  avenue  of  cupa  led  past  a  quiet  campo  santOj 
shadowed  by  cypresses,  to  Francavilla,  whose  ruined 
castle  had  long  been  in  sight,  with  behind  it  the 
strange  outline  of  Castiglione  that  we  were  to  see 
from  so  many  points  of  view.  Even  here,  far  from 
Etna,  whose  towering  bulk  had  for  some  time  shad- 
owed our  path  from  the  left,  streams  of  lava  had 
penetrated.  We  clattered  over  Francavilla's  stony 
streets,  where  again  in  the  mud  and  rain  we  were 
impressed  with  the  squalor  and  poverty  of  the  town, 
lean  pigs,  chickens,  children,  cats  and  peasants  living 
pell-mell,  promiscuously  in  dire  confusion.  How 
they  stared  at  us — rare  forestieri —  and  how  the  pigs 
squealed  at  the  horses ! 

As  we  wound  up  the  loops  under  the  hazel-nut 
trees  that  lead  to  Castiglione,  the  rain  began  to  fall 
in  torrents — a  downpour  such  as  one  only  encounters 
in  southern  climes.  We  drove  into  a  stable  where 
we  alighted  and  were  piloted  by  a  slattern  to  rest  and 
wait  awhile  in  a  room  upstairs.  Luckily  we  had 
lunched  from  a  well-stocked  basket  by  the  roadside. 
We  were  actually  afraid  to  sit  in  the  upholstered 
chairs.  We  did  sample  the  hazel-nuts  for  which  the 
town  is»  famed  all  over  Sicily,  and  then  were  shown 

[170] 


SICILY 

the  baby  of  the  house,  the  only  cherished  possession. 
Around  its  neck  hung  the  inevitable  bit  of  red  coral 
to  ward  off  the  evil  eye. 

These  old-time  superstitions  still  are  universal 
among  the  peasantry.  Their  constant  dread  is  the 
jettatura,  and  all  wear  luck-charms  to  ward  it  off. 
When  a  child  is  born  four  amulets  are  hung  about 
its  neck:  a  little  horn  of  coral,  a  cockle  shell,  a  key 
and  a  tiny  sack  of  salt — the  horn  to  keep  away  the 
jettatura,  the  shell  for  safe-keeping,  the  key  to  enter 
paradise  and  the  salt  for  wisdom.  A  Sicilian  friend 
told  us  of  a  child  whose  lovely  blonde  curls  were  the 
envy  of  every  mother  in  the  neighborhood.  Often 
the  house-porter,  when  he  saw  little  Jeannette,  so 
pretty  with  her  dimpled  arms  and  ribbons  at  her 
shoulders,  used  to  say  to  her  mother:  "Ah,  signora, 
I  so  fear  the  evil  eye  for  the  little  signorina."  But 
the  mother  held  firm.  One  day,  however,  both  curls 
and  ribbons  were  gone  and  signora,  when  questioned, 
merely  answered,  "Oh,  the  jettatura!"  It  is  the 
prayer  of  every  Sicilian  mother  not  to  have  a  child 
bom  in  March,  their  month  of  evil  omen— the  month 
of  the  Passion. 

We  were  back  in  the  carriage  at  three  again  and 
[171] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

once  more  began  to  climb.  The  clouds  swept  very 
low.  As  we  looked  back  on  Castiglione  the  mists 
hung  all  about  it,  disclosing  first  one  silhouette,  then 
another,  veiling  and  unveiling  a  church,  a  cross  or  a 
castellated  rock.  Far  below,  down  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hazel-clad  hillsides,  lay  valleys,  fields  and  vine- 
yards and  the  Alcantara  winding  ribbon-like  through 
it  all.  On  the  other  hand,  the  flanks  of  Etna  mounted 
into  the  clouds,  patches  of  snow  appearing  under  the 
pine  forests  on  the  lower  slopes.  We  took  a  last  look 
down  the  road  we  had  ascended,  for  we  were  now  at 
the  top  of  the  pass  on  the  Monte  Rizzo,  then  started 
downward  into  the  valley  of  the  Minissale. 

Even  as  we  did  so  the  sky  began  to  lighten  and 
the  clouds  to  rush  from  the  black  wastes  of  the  Mon- 
gibello,  towering  ever  higher  and  higher  until  at 
last  its  summit  was  disclosed  in  a  rift  of  scudding 
clouds, 

The  awful  peak,  Etna's  great  mouth 
Round  which  the  sullen  vapor  rolls. 

Linguaglossa,  whence  Crispi's  daughter  drew  her 
title,  proved  cleaner  than  its  neighbors  and  possessed 
shops  of  some  importance.     After  we  had  rattled 

[172] 


SICILY 

over  its  rough  paving-stones  we  found  ourselves  on 
the  very  slopes  of  Etna. 

How  can  one  describe  the  strangeness  of  the 
Etnean  landscape,  where  the  earth  lies  deep  buried 
under  a  covering  of  inky  substance?  The  diligent 
work  of  patient  generations  of  humanity  has  ter- 
raced these  lava  streams  all  up  the  hillsides  and  grown 
them  rich  with  vineyards.  Villas  and  well-kept 
houses  testify  to  the  fruitfulness  of  the  soil.  Yet 
every  now  and  then  the  landscape  takes  on  a  hateful 
mood.  Around  Piedimonte,  entirely  built  of  lava 
and,  after  the  heavy  rainfall  of  a  moment  since,  shin- 
ing like  a  negro's  face  in  summer,  nature  had  piled 
up  mountains  of  fantastic  form  and  gouged  out 
chasms  of  horrid  shape,  black,  barred  and  desolate 
as  the  surface  of  the  moon,  hateful  as  the  pits  in 
Dante's  Hell. 

Down,  down  we  went,  steeper  and  steeper,  passing 
vineyards  and  orchards  and  villages  whose  gardens 
are  adorned  with  evergreens  cut  to  represent  women 
or  beasts  of  strange  design.  The  clouds  had  lifted. 
The  sun  burst  forth  and  danced  upon  the  distant 
silent  sea. 

We  forgot  the  horrid  blackness  of  the  past  in  the 
[173] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

joy  of  the  glorious  chestnut  woods  where  Dionysius 
cut  the  timber  for  his  fleet.  In  doorways  we  spied 
women  spinning  with  the  distaff"  as  of  old — a  fashion 
immemoriallj''  antique.  Thus  spun  the  daughters  of 
the  Kings  of  Greece ;  thus  spun  the  Fates.  Here  by 
the  sea  all  the  air  seemed  fragrant  with  mythology. 
Involuntarily  one  recalls  Taine's  pictiu'e  of  Ulysses 
and  his  comrades  in  their  two-sailed  boat,  anchoring 
in  the  mouth  of  some  small  creek,  there  to  refresh 
themselves  and  sleep  half  naked  upon  a  rock.  How 
simple  was  that  fine  old  life!  How  simple  Homer's 
picture  of  luxury:  a  goddess  in  a  cavern  with  birds 
about,  and  a  great  fire,  and  running  water,  and  near 
by  a  grape-vine  heavy  with  luscious  fruit!  How 
simple,  too,  his  natural  man  who  fears  and  says  so 
and  who  weeps ! 

As  we  skirt  the  shore  a  familiar  background  comes 
into  view  and  we  find  ourselves  looking  up  again  at 
Taormina,  hung  high  above  us,  with  Mola  peeping 
over  its  shoulder. 

Easter  morning  dawned  brightly. 

Of  course  there  were  the  usual  elaborate  services 
in  all  the  churches  and  after  these  were  over  the 
people  trooped  back  to  their  homes,  there  to  wait  ex- 

[174] 


The  Easter  Dance 


SICILY 

pectantly  for  the  noon-hour  to  sound.  As  the  first 
stroke  of  twelve  pealed  from  the  town-clocks,  pan- 
demonium was  let  loose.  Every  bell  in  every  church- 
tower  broke  forth  in  deafening  peals;  guns  were 
fired  and  pistols;  bombs  exploded  ever5rwhere;  even 
a  cannon  or  two  added  their  deepest  bass  notes  to  the 
turmoil  and  in  every  house  an  old  chair  or  some  other 
old  piece  of  furniture  was  broken — for  good  luck! 

Then  all  the  population  trooped  forth  again,  this 
time  to  a  big  open  space  down  by  the  Castellamare, 
where  the  pipers  and  zampognari  had  assembled 
and  the  drone  of  their  wheezy  pipes  was  already  to 
be  heard.  At  first  the  peasants  stood  sheepishly 
about,  then,  caught  by  the  music,  couple  after  couple 
began  to  dance,  not  the  sophisticated  dances  of  the 
day,  but  the  old-time  country  jigs  and  fancy  steps  of 
a  bj^-gone  day.  The  unmarried  women  and  even  the 
young  matrons  never  dance! 

So  the  men  joggled  along  together  in  couples  or 
with  the  older  women,  and  a  queer  picture  they  made 
with  their  sandals  of  rawhide,  their  thong-bound 
legs,  their  stocking-caps  and  blue  jackets  and 
breeches.  The  women  stood  by  in  chattering  groups 
and  watched  them. 

As  the  hours  wore  on,  the  excitement  grew;  the 
[175] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

dancers  warming  up  with  the  exhilaration  of  move- 
ment and  the  stirring  of  their  blood.  The  steps  be- 
came more  daring,  their  heels  flew  higher  and  higher, 
applause  and  the  pipers'  quickened  measure  ever 
stimulating  them  to  fresh  endeavor,  and  when  at  last 
we  left  at  eventide,  the  merry  sounds  of  laughter  and 
quickly  shuffling  feet  were  always  in  our  ears. 


[176] 


II 

CARETTI  AND  MARIONETTI 

WHO  that  has  visited  Sicily  has  failed  to 
notice  the  peasants'  carts? 
One  meets  them  at  every  turn:  on 
week-days  loaded  with  barrels  of  wine,  sacks  of  flour, 
cord- wood  or  any  other  commodity;  on  Sundays 
transporting  entire  families  to  town  to  join  the  weekly 
festivals.  Humble  as  are  their  uses,  simple  as  one 
would  expect  to  find  them  in  so  poor  a  land,  they  are 
nevertheless  full  of  expression, — ^precious  indications 
of  the  people's  art  and  thought.  They  are  travel- 
ing books,  moving  poems,  as  it  were,  carrying  along 
the  dusty  roads  of  Sicily  all  that  is  romantic  in  its 
history,  tradition,  customs  and  literature.  They 
have  kept  alive  among  the  lower  classes,  ilhterate 
and  uneducated,  the  romance  and  poetry  of  the  Age 
of  Chivalry,  and  its  quick,  angry  passions  as  well. 

Over  the  entire  island  they  present  the  same  gen- 
eral type: — a  box  swung  high  upon  a  single  axle — 
an  axle  no  longer  of  plain  iron  uniting  the  two 
wheels,  but  wrought  into  a  delicate  fret-work  of 

[177] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

carvings,  with,  in  the  center,  the  figure  of  a  patron 
saint  or  a  Madonna.  The  wheels  themselves  and  all 
the  upper  body  are  also  carved,  then  painted  a  pale 
canary-yellow,  mottled  with  red  and  green  in  stripes 
and  dots.  Hubs,  spokes,  tires,  shafts  and  axle,  all 
are  enriched  with  conventional  patterns,  with  angels, 
heads  of  cherubs,  half -moons  or  any  other  fantasy 
that  pleases  the  artisan's  fancy. 

But  this  decoration  serves  only  as  a  backgi'ound  or 
frame,  as  it  were,  for  the  main  body  of  the  cart, 
which  is  closed  in  after  the  fashion  of  our  dump- 
carts,  by  wooden  panels.  The  front  and  back  panels, 
narrower  than  the  sides,  are  usually  only  decorated 
with  single  figures  of  a  religious  character.  The 
painter's  imagination  has  full  rein,  however,  upon 
the  sides,  which  are  each  divided  like  a  diptych, 
and  here  one  finds  the  pictures  that  make  the  study 
of  these  carts  so  full  of  interest. 

The  subjects?  All  the  traditions  of  Sicily  and  its 
mixed  races;  all  the  events  of  classic  history,  of  the 
Age  of  Chivalry,  of  the  great  epopees  of  more  modern 
times.  Here  we  find  the  "Queen  of  Sheba,"  "The 
"Death  of  Virginia."  There  and  in  greater  numbers 
Burning  of  Troy,"  the  "Rape  of  the  Sabines,"  the 

[178] 


SICILY 

"Orlando  at  Roncevaux,"  "The  Treason  of  Gane- 
lon,"  "Charlemagne  and  his  Paladins,"  with  quan- 
tities of  King  Rogers:  "Coronation  of  Roger," 
"Roger  Entering  Palermo,"  and  so  forth;  for  this 
monarch  seems  to  be  especially  dear  to  the  Sicilian 


r>i 

m^^:::: 


A  Sicilian  Cart 


heart.  Then  from  later  history  come  "Columbus 
before  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,"  "Charles  V  and 
Francis  I,"  Napoleon  leading  his  army  at  Areola, 
or  bidding  adieu  to  the  Old  Guard.  It  is  history 
that  trots  behind  the  horses  of  Sicily ! 

The  pictures  are  painted  in  oil  and  signed  like  any 
other  oil  painting,  and  the  painter's  address  is  care- 

[179] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

fuUy  appended.  So  one  Sunday  morning  I  started 
out  with  the  determination  to  find  for  myself  one  of 
these  cart-painters,  whose  handiwork  I  had  often 
noted,  and  who  seemed  a  master  of  his  calling.  He 
lived  in  the  Corso  dei  Mille,  and  his  name  was  Dome- 
nico  Monteleone. 

After  some  trouble  I  found  his  shop,  at  the  rear 
of  an  enormous  court.  At  one  side,  before  a  smithy, 
a  number  of  donkeys  and  horses  were  being  shod, 
and  I  took  time  to  admire  in  detail  the  trappings  and 
harness  adorned  with  cock-feathers,  bits  of  mirrors 
and  gayly  painted  leathers. 

At  the  back  of  the  court  stood  a  big  shed,  whose 
door  was  bedaubed  with  palette-scrapings — canary- 
yellow,  red  and  green,  the  universal  color  scheme  of 
the  Sicilian  cart.  Inside  the  shed,  half  a  dozen  work- 
men were  busily  painting  as  many  carts :  one  scraping 
the  soft  wood  and  removing  bits  of  old  paint  from 
the  ballerini's  eyes  or  mouths  and  the  interstices  in 
general;  a  second  putting  on  an  undercoat  of  drab; 
another  painting  a  second  coat  of  yellow,  and  still  an- 
other mottling  this  with  daubs  of  red  and  green. 
Over  in  a  comer  another — a  veritable  artist,  he — 
palette  in  hand,  was  painting  little  heads  with  fine 
camel's  hair  brushes ! 

[180] 


SICILY 


t 


The  proprietor,  a  burly,  rubicund  individual  with 
a  big  black  mustache,  proved  talkative,  even  garru- 
lous  at   the    mention   of  a   glass   of    wine.       He 

quoted  prices  that  as- 
tounded me :  two  hun- 
dred lire  for  an  entire 
cart;  fifty  more  for 
painting  it,  and  thirty 
extra  for  the  side 
panels ! 

Looking    about    at 
.4.^  I,  the  blank  walls  of  the 


shed,  I  asked: 

'  'And  from  what  do 
^    yo^     copy     the     pic- 
,^^:i  tures?" 

He  looked  surprised 

a  moment;   then,  tap- 
Water-carrier  ping  his  forehead  with 
gravity,  he  answered:  *'Here  are  the  designs!" 
"And  the  people  leave  you  the  choice  of  subject?" 
''Niente!    My  clients  always  choose  themselves!" 
Then  there  was  no  doubt  of  it.    My  surmises  were 
correct.     Peasants,   workmen,   petty   artisans   and 
shopkeepers    ordered    these    heroic    pictures,    com- 

[181] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

manded  a  "Downfall  of  Carthage,"  a  "Ruggiero 
and  Angelica,"  a  "William  Tell." 

But  where  did  these  illiterate  people,  only  a  tenth 
of  whom  can  read  or  write,  ever  hear  of  these  quasi- 
mythical  personages  whose  story  has  faded  from  the 
minds  of  many  educated  people  of  to-day?  What 
traditions  have  kept  alive  these  histories  of  the  past? 

It  was  not  until  somewhat  later,  when  talking  one 
day  to  the  custodian  of  the  Martorana,  that  I  dis- 
covered the  key  to  the  mystery.  By  chance,  in  his 
verbose  wanderings,  he  began  to  tell  of  the  con- 
tastori  and  the  marionetti. 

Now,  the  Italian  marionetti  I  knew  well,  but  not 
the  Sicilian;  and  as  for  the  contastori,  I  had  never 
heard  of  them.  Following  his  directions,  it  was  not 
long  before  I  found  one  in  a  market-place  close  by. 

As  soon  as  the  first  hint  of  spring-warmth  per- 
vades the  air,  the  contastore  blossoms  forth,  like  the 
early  crocus.  In  the  shade  of  a  tree  or  under  the 
lee-side  of  some  building,  he  sets  out  his  straggling 
row  or  two  of  benches  and  his  wooden  table.  Then, 
like  a  spider  who  has  spun  his  web,  he  awaits  his 
victims,  each  of  whom  he  taxes  two-fifths  of  a  cent 
for  his  seat! 

[182] 


SICILY 

When  the  benches  are  more  or  less  filled  and  his 
audience  are  slowly  and  beatifically  sucking  sticks  of 
candy  into  needle-like  points,  he  mounts  upon  his 
table.  With  wooden  sword  in  hand  with  which  to 
punctuate  his  grandiloquent  phrases  and  give 
strength  and  gesture  to  his  tales  of  love  and  war  and 
fearful  slaughter,  he  recounts  to  his  spell-bound 
listeners  stories  of  chivalry  and  tales  of  daring,  em- 
broidered, enlarged  and  enriched  to  suit  his  temper- 
ament and  that  of  his  audience  as  well — last  descend- 
ant in  this  prosaic  age  of  the  strolling  bard  and 
minnesinger. 

The  contastore  reaches  only  the  small  audience 
and  is  the  lesser  factor;  but  the  puppet-show,  the 
people's  theatre,  leavens  the  whole  lump  and  touches 
the  heart-strings  of  the  populace. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  puppet-shows  are  an 
institution  due  to  our  grandfathers.  They  are  as 
old  as  remotest  antiquity.  We  know  that  the 
Romans  had  a  Punch  called  Maccus,  for  a  very 
creditable  representation  of  him  has  lately  been  un- 
earthed near  Naples — a  bronze,  humped  before  and 
behind  and  graced  with  the  classic  hooked  nose  and 
nut-cracker  chin. 

[183] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

Even  the  word  "marionette"  dates  back  six  hun- 
dred years  to  the  time  when  the  Venetians,  sub- 
stituting wooden  dolls  for  girls  in  their  religious 
processions,  called  them  "mariettes"  or  little  Marias. 

All  through  the  Middle  Ages  puppets  played  an 
important  part  in  the  amusement  and  education  of 
the  masses,  for  they  were  not  always  relegated  to 
the  realms  of  comedy.  In  the  hands  of  famous 
directors,  they  invaded  the  whole  range  of  dramatic 
art,  and  fantoccini  even  sang  grand  opera,  and,  if 
we  may  believe  reports,  sang  it  creditably,  too. 

Wonderful  enough  in  France,  where  they  were 
much  in  favor  with  the  grand  monde\  where  digni- 
fied members  of  the  Academic  Fran9aise  like  Male- 
zieu  did  not  disdain  to  write  plays  for  them;  where 
thinkers  like  Voltaire  fell  victims  to  their  wiles,  in 
Italy  the  inarionetti  reached  even  a  higher  state  of 
development. 

Here  they  were  used  for  political  ends!  Some 
years  ago,  for  now  the  vogue  has  died  away,  Italian 
nobles  gave  fantoccini  shows  in  their  private  palaces 
— plays  reeking  with  escapades  of  Roman  nfion- 
signori  and  political  satire  that  dared  not  show  its 
face  on  public  boards.     I  think  it  is  Stendhal  who 

[184] 


SICILY 

tells  of  one  he  witnessed  in  Florence  on  a  little  stage 
but  five  feet  high,  though  perfect  in  every  detail, 
where  diminutive  marionettes  gave  a  comedy  adapted 
from  Macchiavelli's  "Mondragore." 

The  method  of  manipulating  the  figures  has  re- 
mained quite  the  same  through  all  ages.  The  ope- 
rator still  pulls  the  wires  as  of  old  from  his  castello 
— a  loft  supported  on  a  four-sided  scaffolding — the 
ancient  Greek  nrjyixa  Terpdywvov- 

On  carefully  examining  the  dolls  owned  by  a  com- 
plaisant impresario  under  the  colonnades  of  the  Mu- 
nicipio  of  Orta,  I  found  them  not  entirely  made  of 
wood.  The  head  was  of  papier-mache — light  and 
capable  of  feeling  the  slightest  impulsion,  and  pro- 
vided with  a  hinged  lower  jaw  arranged  to  imitate 
the  movements  of  talking.  The  body  and  thighs 
were  wooden;  the  arms,  legs  and  neck  of  lead  or 
leaded  so  as  to  readily  obey  the  laws  of  gravity.  All 
the  strings  destined  to  move  the  arms  and  legs  united 
inside  the  body  and  issued  together  from  the  head. 
A  metal  rod  connected  this  latter  with  the  operator 
in  his  castellOj  and  by  it  the  manikin  could  be  moved 
about  the  stage. 

The  play  dealt  with  peasant  life,  relating  the  trite 
[185] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

story  of  a  country  lass  who,  despite  the  allurements 
of  the  city  and  the  attentions  of  a  great  gentleman, 
remains  true  to  her  rustic  swain;  of  Rosalia,  her 
mother,  and  Pietro,  her  father — a  cobbler  with  but 
just  enough  work  to  keep  his  family  from  starvation, 
and  the  voices  of  their  hungry  children  calling  from 
behind  the  scenes  for  "polenta,  polenta!"  At  an- 
other show  I  saw  a  shepherd  in  his  goat-skins  do  a 
drunken  scene  upon  his  stilts  that 'for  low  comedy 
was  absolutely  inimitable,  and  well  do  I  remember  a 
dancing  giant  who  dropped  first  his  arms,  then  his 
legs,  and  finally  his  head,  each  of  which,  with  the 
body,  became  a  separate  waltzing  figure. 

I  had  assisted,  a  delighted  spectator,  at  many  a 
puppet-show,  consoling  myself  for  my  frivolity  with 
the  thought  that  many  a  better  man  had  done  the 
same,  remembering  Gautier's  love  for  them,  and 
Stevenson's,  and  I  began  to  think  I  knew  their 
tricks  and  all  their  salient  features. 

Each  district  of  Italy  has  its  favorite  puppet- 
hero:  Naples,  Scaramuccia  and  Pulchinella;  Venice, 
Messer  Pantaleone;  Turin,  Girolamo;  Bologna, 
Dottore  Bellandrone ;  Bergamo,  Arlequino. 

Each  character  has  a  distinct  individuality. 
[186] 


N^Hli,  lit?. 


Pulchinella 


SICILY 

The  Neapolitan  hero,  Scaramuccia,  is  a  sort  of 
false  bravo,  quarrelsome  but  cowardly,  and  always 
clothed  in  black,  which,  Riccoboni  says,  shows  him  to 
be  of  Spanish  origin.  He  declares  himself  a  prince 
of  some  exotic  country,  but  is  usually  supposed  to 
have  been  raised  in  prison,  at  the  King's  expense, 
and  to  have  spent  his  youth  on  the  galleys.  He  is 
always  valet  to  some  gran  signore,  and  an  execrable 
valet,  too,  robbing  his  master  and  his  master's 
friends.  He  shares  his  ill-gotten  gains  with  Pul- 
chinella,  and,  as  they  warm  up  over  their  gluttonous 
feasts,  he  dilates  upon  his  courage  and  his  impossible 
loves,  till  Punch,  wearied,  lays  about  him  with  his 
stick.  Then  Scaramuccia  drops  under  the  table! 
When  the  fit  of  anger  is  past,  up  he  pops  again  with 
"Afraid!  Me!  I  afraid!  I  'm  brave — not  sheep- 
brave,  but  wolf -brave!" 

A  very  different  character  is  Harlequin,  Berga- 
mo's hero,  and  a  very  charming  story  is  told  of  his 
origin. 

It  seems  that  in  that  pretty  city  of  the  Lower 
Alps,  there  once  dwelt  a  little  boy — lovable  and  full 
of  wit — by  name  Arlequino.  So  modest  was  he  that, 
despite  his  many  accomplishments,  his  school-friends 

[187] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

never  were  jealous  of  him,  but  loved  him  as  did  his 
parents.  At  carnival-time  all  the  children,  as  usual, 
were  to  have  fancy  costumes  and  they  eagerly  asked 
Ai-lequino  what  he  was  to  wear. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "my  parents  are  too  poor  this  year 
to  give  me  a  travesty." 

At  this  his  companions  were  greatly  grieved,  for 
they  had  especially  counted  upon  romping  with  him. 
So  they  arranged  that  each  should  contribute  a  piece 
of  stuff,  and  that  from  these  pieces  they  would  make 
a  suit  for  Arlequino.  On  the  appointed  day  each 
brought  his  bit  of  cloth,  but  what  was  their  dismay 
to  find  that  each  scrap  was  of  a  different  color!  In 
their  naivete  they  had  never  thought  of  that.  But 
Arlequino  did  not  mind.  He  took  the  bits,  patched 
them  together  and  on  Mardi  Gras  appeared  in  the 
strange  motley  coat  he  always  wears,  his  wooden 
sword  in  hand,  his  face  covered  with  a  black  half- 
mask,  jumping,  dancing,  singing  at  the  head  of  his 
comrades — the  life  of  the  festa. 

Arlequino  is  always  endowed  with  tbe  traits  of  the 
little  Bergamasque  boy:  kindness,  agility,  credulity, 
and  the  French  have  added  his  discreet  gourmandise. 

So,  as  I  said  before,  each  part  of  Italy  has  its  hero, 
[188] 


SICILY 


but  the  Sicilian  marionetti  reserve  a  distinct  surprise 
for  him  who  sees  them  for  the  first  time.  Their  plays 
differ  essentially  from  their  continental  prototypes 
both  in  plot  and  character.  In  mise-en-scene  and 
cleverness  of  action  they  compare  with 
any  that  I  have  heard  or  read  of. 

Almost  invariably  they  are  founded 
upon  the  same  theme — Ariosto's  "  Or- 
lando Furioso." 

The  theatre  is  usually  installed  in  a 
vacant  shop  and  has  a  temporary  air, 
for  as  soon  as  the  shop  is  rented  the 
showman  moves  on.  Outside  hangs  a 
gaudy  poster  depicting  the  thrilling 
scenes  to  be  enacted  within — pictures 
of  battle  and  tourney, — far  better 
suited  to  the  illiterate  public  than  a 
lettered  announcement.  An  admission 
fee  of  two  soldi  is  charged.  On  enter- 
ing, a  strong  odor  of  garlic  offends  the  nose,  there 
being  no  other  ventilation  than  the  closed  street-door. 

The  audience,  for  the  most  part  masculine,  sits  in 
serried  ranks  on  ordinary  rush-bottomed  chairs.  A 
little  gallery  on  either  side  of  the  shop  shows  above 

[189] 


A  Marionette 
Knight 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

its  rail  an  expectant  row  of  faces,  lit  by  the  fitful 
glow  of  coal-oil  lanterns.  The  stage,  surprisingly- 
large,  is  framed  in  red  pasteboard  draperies.  Six 
small  lamps  do  duty  as  foot-lights. 

The  curtain  rises  and  displays  a  Council  of  the 
Paladins.  The  background  and  wings  figure  a  mas- 
sive Gothic  hall.  The  puppets,  each  nearly  five  feet 
tall,  stand  sheathed  cap-a-pie  in  shimmering  armor 
— armet  and  pauldron,  plastron  and  tasseled  skirt 
imitated  to  the  life  by  a  local  tinsmith. 

In  bombastic  phrases  the  discussion  begins.  The 
audience  recognizes  each  character  as  an  old  familiar 
friend — Orlando  by  his  commanding  figure,  his 
deep  bass  voice  and  his  helmet — 

Topt  high  with  plumes  like  Mars  his  burgonet; 

Rinaldo  by  his  flaming  panache;  Marfisa  by  her 
shrill  falsetto.  Carlo  Magno  sits  upon  his  throne, 
wrapped  in  robes  of  state,  noddiiig  approval  or  ex- 
pressing discontent. 

Occasionally  an  operator's  arm  or  leg,  Brobding- 
nagian,  distorted  to  unnatural  size,  appears  from 
flies  or  wings  as  he  moves  a  figure. 

[190] 


A  Sicilian  Marionette-show 


SICILY 

The  faces  on  the  rush-covered  chairs  glow  with 
excitement  as  they  follow  the  multitudinous  inci- 
dents: Orlando's  quest  for  his  long-lost  Angelica, 
Ruggiero's  flights  upon  the  Hippogriff  to  his  well- 
beloved  Bradamante;  but  above  all,  reveling  in  the 
terrific  onslaught  'twixt  Pagan  and  Paladin,  Oli- 
viero  pitted  against  the  King  of  Africa,  Gradasso 
daring  to  face  II  Furioso,  and  Brandimarte  slaying 
King  Agramante.  The  clash  of  tin  resounds  on  tin ; 
turbaned  Turks  pile  high  upon  the  stage;  the  shock 
of  battle  is  terrific,  heightened  by  the  operator's  feet 
thumping  upon  the  hollow  stage,  and  their  voices  in 
unison  shouting  the  battle-cries. 

Del  gran  romor  J'u  visto  il  mar  gonjarsi, 
Del  gran  romor,  che  s'udi  sino  in  Francia. 

Who,  after  witnessing  these  shows,  with  all  their 
wealth  of  detail  and  incident,  could  longer  question 
where  the  Sicilian  populace  gains  its  love  for  the 
Age  of  Chivalry? 


[191] 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 

THE  MEDITERRANEAN  lies  flat  to  the 
horizon.  Swirling  cirrus-clouds,  catching 
the  first  flush  of  early  morning,  cast  a  rosy 
tint  upon  the  water.  A  richer  flush  in  the  sky — then  a 
golden  glow,  and  the  sun  shows  an  edge  above  the 
sea.  Slowly  it  unfolds  its  fiery  rim,  until,  increasing 
in  intensity,  it  leaves  the  water's  edge.  Glints  of 
golden  light  dance  down  the  waves — down  to  the 
Asia's  side — and  warm  sunbeams  temper  the  keen- 
ness of  the  frosty  wind. 

Morning  mists  gather  round  a  long,  low,  gleam- 
ing streak  on  the  far  horizon,  the  only  object  to 
catch  the  eye  in  all  this  waste  of  waters:  the  chalky 
cKff^s  of  Malta — one  of  the  bulwarks  of  England's 
strength;  with  Gibraltar  and  Port  Said,  the  key  to 
the  Mediterranean. 

As  we  approach  the  shore,  Valetta's  mass  detaches 
from  surrounding  promontories.  Vapory  clouds, 
chased  by  the  moist  scirocco,  float  vague  shadows 
over  its  dazzling  houses,  emphasizing  first  one  sil- 
houette, then  another.    Six  British  soldiers,  in  khaki, 

[195] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

on  the  forward  deck,  watch  their  future  home  with 
interest.  Two  openings  in  the  coast  present  them- 
selves, one  on  each  side  of  Valetta,  and  our  steamer, 
heading  between  the  casemates  of  St.  Ehno  and  Fort 
Ricasoh,  enters  the  Great  Harbor. 

The  spacious  bay  seems  narrow,  so  towering  are 
the  masses  of  construction  that  surround  it.  Nature 
is  buried  under  mountains  of  masonry.  On  all  sides 
ramparts  and  bastions,  houses  and  arcades,  and  yet 
more  houses,  press  one  upon  another's  shoulders 
up  to  the  very  heavens.  The  mind  is  appalled  at  this 
colossal  work  of  man,  at  these  piles  of  buildings 
whose  powdery  whiteness  dazzles  the  eye.  Behind 
each  crenelated  headland  lurks  a  man-of-war.  In 
the  smaller  bays  around  the  Borgo,  troop-ships  and 
training-ships,  cruisers  and  gunboats,  transports  and 
colliers,  crowd  round  naval  arsenals  and  dockyards. 
Down  the  center  of  the  bay  line  England's  biggest 
battle-ships — a  dozen  of  them — their  bands  playing 
for  morning  parade,  their  decks  swarming  with 
"Jackies."  We  steam  slowly  past  the  Renown,  the 
flagship  of  the  Mediterranean  Squadron,  proudly 
floating  at  her  masthead  Admiral  Sir  John  Fisher's 
flag,  the  red  cross  of  St.  George. 

Farther  down  the  harbor,  Floriana's  mass  looms 
[196] 


Valetta,  Malta 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 

up  behind  the  immense  bastions  of  Fort  Lascaris. 
Everywhere  is  the  same  impression  of  indomitable 
strength — of  a  city  built  for  resistance — of  a  fortress 
rendered  impregnable  by  every  art  of  war,  by  cen- 
turies of  labor. 

And  the  animation  upon  the  water !  How  can  one 
depict  it?  The  dghaisas  give  the  dominant  note — 
native  boats  like  gondolas,  not  black,  however,  and 
slender  like  their  Venetian  sisters,  but  stocky,  and 
striped  and  painted  in  many  colors.  Their  rowers 
stand  facing  the  prow,  and  propel  their  heavy  craft 
with  surprising  rapidity.  These  boats,  everywhere, 
dart  in  and  out  among  puffing  launches  from  the 
war-ships  and  gigs,  manned  by  trim  blue-jackets; 
among  tishing-smacks  with  lateen  sails,  and  tugs 
towing  long  lines  of  coal-barges.  Under  the  pro- 
tecting guns  of  the  Upper  Barracca  lie  the  merchant 
craft,  moored  calm  and  quiet,  as  befits  such  vessels, 
their  cranes  swinging  to  and  fro. 

The  Asia  has  now  slowed  down;  the  quarantine 
officer  has  come  over  the  side,  and,  in  the  smoking- 
room,  has  made  each  passenger  take  oath  that  he  has 
not  been  in  Egypt  within  ten  days — for  cholera  is 
signaled  there. 

After  an  hour's  delay  our  luggage  is  lowered  over 

[197] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

the  side  into  a  stout  dghaisa.    Two  sun-baked  sons 
of  Malta  speed  us  over  the  ruffled  water.    The  sun 


n 


A  Maltese  Fishing-smack 


peeps  in  and  out  behind  the  scurrying  clouds.  We 
dodge  around  the  larger  craft,  and  in  a  few  moments 
are  at  the  landing-steps,  where  the  bustle  is  in- 
describable.    Crowds  are  clamoring  to  be  ferried 

[198] 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 

over  to  the  Borgo  and  the  navy  arsenal;  other 
crowds,  equally  impatient,  await  their  turn  to  land. 
The  boatmen  yell  and  gesticulate,  while  trying  to 
keep  their  craft  from  scraping  on  the  big  stone  steps. 

After  the  usual  formalities  at  the  custom-house, 
we  are  given  over  to  the  mercy  of  a  horde  of  squab- 
bling cabmen.  In  a  daze  we  rattle  past  the  fish- 
market,  with  its  motley  crowd  of  every  nationality, 
then  rumble  over  a  drawbridge  and  through  the  Vic- 
toria Gate. 

Valetta's  streets  are  busy — almost  as  busy  as  the 
waters  of  the  bay.  The  main  thoroughfares  are 
nearly  level,  running  straight  along  the  crest  of  the 
hill,  but  the  cross-streets  pitch  steep  down  to  the  har- 
bors on  each  side,  and  are  often  disposed  in  steps, 
their  incline  is  so  rapid.  The  houses  are  high,  flat- 
roofed,  and  provided  with  the  balconies  that  form 
the  leading  characteristic  of  Maltese  architecture — 
balconies  roofed  over  and  inclosed  by  windows  and 
shutters,  so  arranged  as  to  control  the  currents  of 
air  let  in  to  refresh  the  inner  apartments — a  sort  of 
Moorish  moncharhis,  behind  whose  blinds  the  quick 
glance  of  a  pair  of  black  eyes  is  often  caught. 

At  street  corners  statues  of  saints  of  heroic  size, 
[199] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

with  lighted  lamps  before  them,  recall  the  narrow 
streets  of  Naples. 

Now  and  then  we  pass  a  big  palace — quite  sure  to 
be  an  Auberge  of  the  Knights  of  one  of  the  seven 
langues — building  in  no  way  reminiscent  of  a  way- 
side tavern,  as  their  name  would  imply,  but  huge 
palazzi  in  a  pompous  Italian  style,  with  great  tro- 
phies and  escutcheons  over  the  doorways.  Now,  in- 
stead of  housing  haughty  members  of  the  Order — 
the  proud  Castilian,  the  fiery  Provencal,  the  dark 
Italian,  or  the  blond-bearded  German — one  Au- 
berge is  used  by  the  artillery  mess,  another  by  the 
engineer  corps,  a  third  by  the  Admiralty,  while  the 
Auberge  de  Provence,  with  its  magnificent  hall,  is 
the  home  of  the  Malta  Union  Club. 

The  Maltese  women  still  wear  the  f  aldetta,  a  gar- 
ment whose  somber  shadow  imparts  to  them  a  certain 
demureness  and  sobriety.  Imagine  a  great  hood  of 
black  silk  falling  to  the  knee,  gathered  fanwise  on 
one  side  of  the  head  and  whaleboned  out  on  the  other 
into  a  full  sweeping  curve.  In  this  mantle  the 
women  drape  themselves — gather  it  round  them  in 
the  wind,  tilt  it  to  ward  off  the  sun's  hot  rays,  or  to 
screen  their  dark  glances;  in  its  ample  folds  they 

[200] 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 


carry  the  market-basket  or  a  child  whose  face  peeps 
out  from  its  black  depths.  No  Maltese  woman  ever 
is  seen  without  it.  Several  came  over  on  our  steamer 
from  Sicily,  and  donned  their 
faldetta  as  soon  as  we  entered 
port. 

It  seems  that  more  than  a  cen- 
tury ago  Malta  was  visited  by 
the  plague  and  the  entire  popu- 
lation of  the  island  seemed 
doomed.  At  last  the  women, 
desperate  at  seeing  so  many  of 
their  dear  ones  carried  off,  made 
a  vow  to  the  Virgin  that,  if  she 
would  abate  the  pestilence,  they 
would  renounce  all  color  and 
wear  black  for  a  hundred  years. 
And  behold,  the  pestilence 
ceased ! 

So  the  women  donned  mourning  for  a  century, 
and  when  that  period  of  time  was  up,  some  twenty 
years  ago,  they  began  to  use  color,  but  only  in  sub- 
dued tones,  dull  blue  and  carmelite  brown  remain- 
ing favorites  to-day,  giving  them  a  quaint,  Quaker- 

[201] 


Lady  Wearing  the 
Faldetta 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

ish  air.  Then,  too,  they  had  become  so  accustomed  to 
the  great  faldetta  that  its  use  was  never  discon- 
tinued, but  is  as  universal  to-day  as  it  was  in  their 
period  of  deepest  mourning. 

The  Maltese  men  wear  no  distinctive  costume,  and 
the  streets  present  the  usual  mixed  population  of 
Mediterranean  ports;  Sicilians  in  yellow  kerchiefs 
and  embroidered  belts ;  Arabs  and  Bedouins  in  bour- 
nous  and  gandurah ;  Greeks  and  Turks  and  Neapol- 
itans. 

Our  carriage  swings  round  a  corner  and  enters 
St.  George's  Square,  with  the  Governor's  palace  on 
one  side  and  the  guardhouse  on  the  other.  Before 
the  sentry-box,  in  the  blazing  sun,  stiff  as  though 
made  of  wood,  but  neat  and  smart,  a  red-coat  sentinel 
stands  guard  for  the  King.  Under  the  portico  on  a 
stone  seat  lounge  a  half-dozen  of  his  comrades.  The 
Strada  Reale,  broad  and  straight,  leads  hence  to  the 
Porta  Reale,  Valetta's  main  gate,  and  its  only  exit 
to  the  country.  The  Strada  Reale  is  a  busy  street, 
and  in  its  attractive  shops  we  admire  exquisite  Mal- 
tese laces,  renowned  for  centuries  and  now  coming 
much  into  vogue. 

Our  hotel  windows  looked  out  over  a  world  of 
[202] 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 

roof-tops,  the  strangest  that  I  have  seen.  Not  a 
spot  of  green  nor  a  spear  of  grass  broke  their  bleak 
expanse.  Walls  and  roofs,  all  of  them  flat,  are 
made  of  the  same  buff  stone,  powdery  and  gilded 
by  the  sunlight  to  a  brilliant  yellow,  most  trying  to 
the  eyes.  Imagine  this  mass  of  quivering  light  cut 
against  a  sea  of  intensest  blue,  with  a  brilliant  cloud- 
less sky  overhead,  and  you  have  an  idea  of  why  the 
island  has  jocularly  been  likened  to  a  fried  flounder! 

At  the  end  of  the  Strada  Reale  lies  a  garden 
called  the  Upper  Barracca,  where  nursery-maids  and 
soldiers  congregate  under  the  shady  loggia.  This  is 
the  spot  from  which  to  view  the  harbors.  The  five 
bays  open  their  narrow  arms  at  your  feet,  each 
hemmed  in  with  giant  forts  and  studded  with  battle- 
ships. 

As  we  looked  down  into  the  fathomless  moat, 
hewn  in  the  solid  rock  from  harbor  to  harbor  by  the 
labor  of  thousands  of  Turkish  slaves;  and  as,  turn- 
ing in  the  other  direction,  we  looked  toward  the 
mouth  of  the  harbor,  and  the  deep  blue  sea,  I  was 
tempted  to  sketch.'  I  had  been  at  work  but  five 
minutes  when  I  caught  the  eye  of  a  sentry  a  hun- 
dred feet  below,  on  top  of  Fort  Lascaris.    Just  three 

[203] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

minutes  later,  looking  round,  I  saw  two  big  troopers 
of  the  Royal  Malta  Artillery,  who,  saluting,  politely 
requested  to  see  my  permit!  I  had  not  thought  of 
that.  As  I  afterwards  found  out  again  and  again, 
every  inch  of  Valetta  is  under  strict  military  super- 
vision, and  sketching  is  allowed  only  by  special  per- 
mission of  the  Governor.  My  name  and  address 
were  duly  taken,  and  politely,  but  firmly,  I  was  told 
it  must  not  occur  again  until  a  permit  was  issued. 

After  luncheon  we  drove  out  to  see  our  friends, 
the  C s,  who  have  a  beautiful  villa  in  the  country. 

On  leaving  the  city  gate  we  remarked  the  gigantic 
defenses  on  the  land  side  of  Valetta — moat  and  aba- 
cus and  glacis  and  scarps  and  counterscarps  hun- 
dreds of  feet  in  length.  Passing  through  the  outer 
gate,  we  entered  the  country — if  country  it  can  be 
called — where  even  in  May  only  an  occasional  patch 
of  green  rejoices  the  eye,  where  whitish  trees  line 
roads  deep-powdered  with  a  creamy  dust.  Even  here 
on  the  glacis  the  tents  of  British  soldiers  are  pitched. 

Mr.  C is,  I  believe,  the  only  American  resident 

of  Malta.  His  villa  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
homes  on  the  island.  Seven  broad  terraces  of  olive, 
orange,  and  lemon  trees  ascend  from  the  water's 

[204] 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 

edge  to  a  spacious  pergola,  several  hundred  feet  in 
length,  overgrown  with  roses  and  trumpet-vine,  and 
masses  of  gorgeous  purple  bougainvillea.  The  house 
itself  savors  of  the  Spanish — low  and  rambling — 
with  salon  after  salon  filled  with  souvenirs  of  the 
days  of  the  Knights,  with  silver  of  rare  workman- 
ship, with  portraits  of  Grand  Masters  in  flowing 
robes  with  crosses  of  St.  John  upon  their  breasts. 
Among  pictures  by  Francia  and  Robusti,  by  Cara- 
vaggio  and  Preti,  examples  of  Cropsey,  Van  Elten, 
and  Bierstadt  strike  a  strange  note. 

In  the  well-chosen  library  I  refreshed  my  memory 
on  the  history  of  Malta,  and  as  I  looked  from  the 
window  could  read  with  new  understanding  of  the 
heart-sinkings  of  I'lsle  Adam  and  his  brother 
knights  on  coming  from  the  gardens  of  Rhodes  to 
this  desert  island  spot.  Prescott's  wonderful  ac- 
count of  the  great  Siege  took  on  a  fresh  interest 
when  I  could  place  St.  Elmo,  the  old  city,  and  the 
harbors  where  the  swimmers  fought  in  the  water 
with  their  knives  between  their  teeth.  Even  in  so 
sober  a  historian  the  story  reads  like  a  recital  of 
the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table  or  the  Paladins  of 
Charlemagne.  The  courage  of  Jean  de  la  Valette,  his 

[205] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

determination  in  the  face  of  all  obstacles,  his  diplo- 
macy and  wisdom,  fill  the  mind  with  admiration. 
And  as  the  Valetta  bells  clang  out  in  the  distance  in 
dire  confusion,  I  imagine  they  are  calling  the  people 
together  on  the  8th  of  September,  the  end  of  the 
great  Siege,  when  the  Turk  took  to  his  ships  and 
never  again  dared  face  the  Knights  of  Christendom. 
I  could  see  the  cortege  as  Prescott  describes  it — 
the  whole  body  of  the  Knights  and  the  people  of  the 
capital,  walking  in  solemn  procession,  with  the 
Grand  Master  at  their  head,  to  the  Church  of  St. 
John.  A  knight  in  full  armor  bore  on  high  the  vic- 
torious Standard  of  the  Order.  By  his  side  a  page 
walked,  carrying  the  gold-hilted  sword,  set  with  dia- 
monds, presented  by  Philip  II.  of  Spain  to  Jean 
de  la  Valette.  As  the  procession  entered  the  church 
the  Standard  was  laid  at  the  altar's  foot,  with  a 
flourish  of  trumpets  and  the  boom  of  cannon  from 
the  ramparts.  The  Knights  filled  the  nave  of  the 
church,  the  chaplains  and  people  stood  within  the 
chapels.  At  the  reading  of  the  Gospel,  the  Grand 
Master,  taking  the  naked  sword  from  the  page,  held 
it  aloft  as  a  sign  that  the  Knights  would  ever  battle 
for  the  Church. 

[206] 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 

And  the  same  martial  tone  pervades  St.  John's 
Church  to-day. 

Its  exterior,  plain  and  sober  as  a  fortress,  in  no 
way  prepares  one  for  the  blaze  of  glory  within.  But 
once  the  portal  crossed,  arches  and  pillars  gleam 
with  the  arms  of  Knights  and  Grand  Masters,  with 
the  "pomp  of  heraldry,"  with  trumpets  and  dnmis 
and  cannon  and  floating  banners.  II  Calabrese's 
superb  ceiling  unrolls  its  glorious  length  of  armored 
heroes,  strangely  mixed  with  figures  of  saints  and 
angels.  The  chapel  walls,  incrusted  with  martial 
tombs,  bear  records  of  warlike  deeds.  The  pave- 
ment, probably  the  most  sumptuous  in  Europe,  is 
formed  by  tombstones  of  Princes  of  the  Order,  slab 
touching  slab  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  church — 
one  vast  mosaic  of  emblazonment,  of  colored  mar- 
bles and  precious  stones.  The  furnishings  of  the 
church  are  of  the  richest.  Its  crowning  glory,  how- 
ever, is  seldom  seen  by  the  traveler;  it  was,  notwith- 
standing, our  good  fortune  to  behold  it. 

During  our  stay  the  Archbishop  celebrated  his 
jubilee — the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  celebration 
of  his  first  mass.  For  this  event  a  magnificent  series 
of  fetes  was  organized,  and  for  them  the  church  was 

[  207  ] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

hung  with  tapestries  woven  for  it  in  Flanders  by  the 
brothers  De  Vos — a  series  of  pictures  each  more  than 
twenty  feet  square,  hanging  the  entire  length  of  the 
nave  and  made  to  tone  in  perfect  harmony  with  their 
surroundings. 

On  the  day  of  the  jubilee  a  special  invitation  ad- 
mitted us  to  the  nave.  Imagine  that  nave  in  all  its 
glory  of  color,  filled  with  the  representatives  of  Mal- 
ta's social,  political,  and  ecclesiastical  life — officers  of 
the  army  and  navy  in  full  dress,  their  scarlet  coats 
rich  with  gold-lace;  magistrates  in  flowing  black 
gowns  and  white  neckcloths;  groups  of  Franciscan 
and  Benedictine  friars  and  Dominican  brothers  in 
black  and  white.  Imagine  the  chapels  packed  to  over- 
flowing with  a  sea  of  Maltese  faces.  Imagine  be- 
tween the  double  file  of  Maltese  police  a  grand  pro- 
cession entering  the  church,  amid  a  burst  of  music 
from  the  organ-loft  and  a  chorus  of  many  voices: 
lines  of  choir-boys,  of  clergy  in  rich  robes  edged 
with  precious  antique  Malta  laces;  of  mace-bearers 
in  full-bottomed  wigs  and  robes  of  purple  and  scar- 
let carrying  huge  maces  of  silver  and  gold ;  then  the 
Chapter  of  St.  John — abbots  in  white  miters  and 
robes  of  cloth  of  silver,  followed  by  bishops  in  golden 

[  208  ] 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 

miters  and  robes  of  cloth  of  gold.  Lastly,  the  Arch- 
bishop, alert  and  erect  in  spite  of  his  age  and  his 
burden  of  embroidered  vestments  studded  with  pre- 
cious" stones,  his  sharp  gray  eyes  turning  right  and 
left  as  he  blesses  the  kneeling  multitude.  During  the 
singing  of  the  Te  Deum  a  flutter  runs  over  the  con- 
gregation, and  the  Governor  of  Malta,  Major-Gen- 
eral  Sir  Francis  Grenfell,  walks  up  the  aisle  to  his 
raised  dais  opposite  the  Archbishop's  throne.  A  fine 
type  of  British  officer  he  is — straight  in  his  tight- 
buttoned  coat,  simply  trimjned  with  gold — a  fine 
head,  set  bull-dog  fashion  well  down  into  his  shoul- 
ders, clean-featured  and  clear-eyed,  with  a  nervous 
habit  of  biting  at  his  mustache. 

'Mid  clouds  of  incense,  the  chorus  of  many  voices, 
the  organ's  pealing  notes,  the  display  of  richest 
vestments,  the  solemn  Te  Deum  is  rendered,  and  at 
its  close  Governor  and  Archbishop  walk  from  the 
church  together. 

In  spite  of  these  occasional  official  rapproche- 
ments, the  English  have  not  succeeded  in  making 
themselves  any  too  popular  with  their  Maltese  sub- 
jects. Few  Maltese  have  taken  the  trouble  to  learn 
the  English  language.     Even  the  policemen  can 

[209] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

scarcely  answer  an  English  question.  Much  feehng 
has  been  caused  by  a  decision  to  substitute  officially 
English  for  the  Italian  language,  to  which  the  Mal- 
tese have  been  accustomed  for  centuries.  Feeling 
has  run  so  high  that  the  natives  refuse  to  commemo- 
rate the  coronation  of  King  Edward,  their  Council 
professing  that  they  have  more  cause  for  tears  than 
for  rejoicing.  EngHsh  and  Maltese  mingle  little 
socially,  and  there  are  but  few  mixed  marriages. 

Valetta  is  not  the  only  considerable  town  in  Malta. 
The  original  capital,  Citta  Vecchia,  still  crowns  its 
hill-top  some  eight  miles  away.  It  can  be  reached 
by  the  carriage  road  or  by  a  little  railway  running 
across  the  island. 

Citta  Vecchia  still  justifies  its  second  appellation. 
La  Notabile,  for  even  to-day  it  presents  an  imposing 
appearance,  girdled  with  ramparts  and  crowned  with 
the  spires  and  domes  of  the  Church  of  St.  Paul.  It 
is  entered  by  crossing  a  deep  moat  now  cultivated 
as  a  vegetable  garden.  The  streets  are  wide  for  a 
mediaeval  city,  and  its  houses,  of  a  warm,  golden  hue, 
retain  a  certain  air  of  grandeur,  with  their  rows  of 
spacious  windows,  their  coroneted  portals,  and  great 
doors  ornamented  with  finely  chiseled  bronze 
knockers. 

[210] 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA 

Modem  life  has  never  touched  this  proud  old  city 
with  its  handsome  monuments,  its  deserted  streets 
of  palaces  and  stately  open  squares,  and  it  sits 
haughtily  upon  its  hill-top  like  a  fine  old  conservative 
gentleman,  to  look  across  the  flat-lands  at  its  modern 
and  happy  rival. 

Inside  the  Church  of  St.  Paul  we  found  a  pave- 
ment similar  to  that  of  St.  John's  over  in  Valetta, 
but  of  course  less  rich  and  less  noteworthy.  Here, 
too,  two  thrones,  one  for  the  Bishop  and  one  for  the 
King,  who  sits  far  off  in  Buckingham,  face  each 
other  at  opposite  sides  of  the  high  altar. 

One  day  we  drove  to  Hagiar-Kim — a  temple,  or 
rather  two  temples,  built  by  the  Phoenicians  nearly 
four  thousand  years  ago.  Happily  we  had  with  us 
a  friend,  a  man  well  able  to  describe  these  interesting 

remains — Monsignor  D .     ^y  his  aid  we  were 

enabled  to  comprehend  the  strange  arrangements  of 
egg-shaped  chambers,  joining  one  upon  the  other, 
and  the  uses  of  holes  to  admit  the  oracle's  voice — 
with  a  little  closet  behind  where  the  "oracle"  hid.  He 
also  pointed  out  to  us  mushroom-shaped  altars  for 
human  sacrifices.  The  ruins  are  extensive,  and  are, 
I  believe,  the  best  preserved  of  their  kind  in  exist- 
ence.   Their  situation  is  desolate  in  the  extreme;  on 

[211] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

the  slopes  of  a  stony  waste  of  coast  overlooking  the 
African  Sea,  whose  wild  expanse  is  broken  by  but 
a  single  object— the  rocky  islet  of  Filfla— washed 
like  some  storm-tossed  galley  bj'-  the  angry  waters. 

In  the  temple  seven  little  sandstone  figures  have 
been  found — the  Kabiri,  now  preserved  in  the  mu- 
seum of  Valetta — idols  probably  connected  with  the 
worship  of  abundance  or  fertility,  devoid  of  heads, 
but  with  holes  in  the  neck  where  a  nodding  head  was 
inserted. 

Malta  boasts  of  other  remarkable  attractions  for 
the  archaeologist.  Its  southern  and  western  shores 
are  riddled  with  Phoenician  tombs  and  dwellings. 
Some  notable  Roman  remains — villas  and  early 
Christian  catacombs — have  recently  been  unearthed 
near  La  Notabile.  There  is  St.  Paul's  Bay  to  be 
visited — where  the  Apostle  landed  after  his  ship- 
wreck—and the  cave  in  which  he  preached  while  the 
guest  of  Publius  at  Citta  Vecchia. 


[212] 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 

A   FRICA  was  stamped  upon  the  faces  of  our 

l\  Arab  crew.  A  score  of  them  had  just  closed 
•^  -^  down  the  hatches—a  strange-looking  gang, 
these  loosely-clad  men  of  the  sun,  now  bent  over 
taking  their  "wash-up"  before  a  trickling  faucet. 
True  disciples  of  Allah,  they  followed  his  bidding, 
and  would  have  washed  in  sand,  had  water  been 
lacking. 

The  peaceful  sea  was  heaving  in  a  lazy  swell,  the 
soothing  sleep  following  a  storm.  A  few  French- 
men, their  hands  behind  their  backs,  nervously  paced 
the  deck;  some  Italian  women  in  their  best  black 
Sunday  silks,  lolled  in  steamer-chairs;  a  group  of 
Englishmen  stood  discussing  the  probabilities  of 
sea-sickness. 

The  early  southern  night  closed  down  quickly  like 
the  lid  of  a  box.  In  the  darkness,  the  officer  on  the 
bridge  seemed  a  Titan  against  the  sky ;  myriad  stars 
set  the  sable  night  a-twinkle.     .     .     . 

Next  morning  when  I  appeared,  the  motley  crew 
was  swabbing  down  the  deck.     A  fat  Maltese  boat- 

[215] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

swain  stood  watching  them,  dipping  a  ration  of 
bread,  piece  by  piece,  into  a  tin  cup.  On  seeing  me 
he  touched  his  cap  and  pointing  a  coffee-stained 
morsel  over  the  bow,  exclaimed:  "Africa — that." 

I  noted  on  the  horizon,  not  the  bare  low  line  I  had 
expected,  but  high,  jagged  mountain  peaks,  faint, 
pale  and  opalescent  in  the  morning  air.  Soon  the 
chfFs  of  Cape  Bon  cut  clearly  against  the  dim  tints 
of  Kairouan  and  Zaghouan,  and  over  the  starboard 
bow  appeared  the  ruddy  crags  of  Cape  Carthage, 
with  a  village,  Sidi-ben-Said,  hung  like  a  fleck  of 
snow  upon  their  summits.  What  a  thrill  that  very 
name  awakes — Carthage,  Queen  of  the  Seas ! 

Carthago  delenda  est.  The  words  have  been  ful- 
filled. To-day  not  a  stone  remains  upon  another; 
the  plow  turns  up  its  streets. 

Here  we  are  at  La  Goulette.  A  pilot-boat  manned 
by  a  fez-capped  crew  comes  out  to  meet  us.  Slowly 
we  steam  down  the  canal  recently  cut  through  the 
shallow  Lake  of  Tunis  and  connecting  the  city  with 
the  sea.  On  either  hand  green  dikes  line  up,  leading 
like  carpets  to  a  royal  gate.  I  search  for  a  flight  of 
flamingoes  sweeping  across  the  sky,  but  search 
in  vain,  so  content  myself  watching  a  camp  of 

[216] 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 

Bedouins,  huddled  together  in  the  shadow  of  half  a 
dozen  camels.  We  pass  the  citadel  built  by  Charles 
of  Spain.  All  the  landscape  is  green  with  vegeta- 
tion; olive  orchards,  orange  and  lemon  trees,  groves 


■^^J.::.:J^J  .'..  \2^.-'  •  • ' 


■  ■^li'jfe&^S 


Bedouins 


of  pines  and  caroub  trees  cover  the  hill  slopes.  To 
the  left,  on  a  height,  the  tomb  of  a  sainted  marabout 
dominates  the  snowy  domes  and  minarets  of  Tunis. 
At  the  end  of  the  canal  the  steamer  swings  into 
a  square  basin  and  with  the  aid  of  winches  is  slowly 
hauled  alongside  the  dock. 

[217] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

A  dozen  French  policemen  and  douaniers,  wide- 
trousered  and  important,  are  the  only  familiar  beings 
among  a  mob  of  Arabs  awaiting  our  arrival.  A 
noisy  wrangle  is  going  on  as  to  the  first  right  of 
boarding,  and  suddenly  a  strapping  negro  settles  the 
question  by  leaping  like  a  tiger  from  the  dock  and 
swings  himself  upon  the  deck,  before  the  gendarme 
with  a  "Veut-tu  descendre"  has  time  to  lay  hands 
upon  him.  Another  tries  to  follow  and  another ;  up 
the  gangplank  they  swarm,  like  rats,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  captain  had  thrown  one  persistent  Touareg 
over  the  side,  that  we  could  go  in  peace  to  the  custom- 
house. 

After  the  simple  formalities  there — the  mere 
chalking  of  a  circle  upon  each  article  of  luggage — 
we  jumped  into  a  neat  victoria.  Leaving  the  dock- 
yards, we  soon  reach  the  outskirts  of  the  French 
quarter,  where  miserable  wooden  shanties  increase  in 
number  until  their  roof -lines  touch — a  mushroom 
growth  like  the  main  street  of  a  western  town,  flaunt- 
ing numerous  drink-shop  signs  and  the  inevitable 
evidences  of  washerwomen. 

But  coming  in  to  the  Avenue  de  la  Marine  the 
character  changes.    The  houses  grow  higher,  more 

[218] 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 

solid  and  more  pretentious,  until  the  street  is  strongly 
reminiscent  of  an  outer  Paris  boulevard.  Its  broad 
expanse,  shaded  by  a  quadruple  row  of  stately  palm 
trees,  is  the  playground  of  scores  of  youthful  col- 
onists romping  with  hoop  and  top  or  at  hide-and- 
seek  with  their  nurse  maids.  Midway  up  the  avenue 
opens  an  imposing  square,  where  a  fountain  sprays 
clusters  of  frail  papyrus  and  blooming  water-lilies. 
One  side  of  this  place  is  occupied  by  the  Residence, 
the  palace  of  the  French  Governor-General.  Op- 
posite it,  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Mary  raises  its  gray 
f a9ade.  Even  as  we  pass  the  chimes  are  ringing  and 
a  crowd  of  gay-gowned  women  and  an  endless  file 
of  black-coat  boys  are  entering  the  triple  portal. 

Our  rooms  give  on  a  balcony,  facing  the  military 
club,  which  proved  to  be  the  focal  point  for  the  for- 
eign life  of  Tunis.  Under  the  striped  awning  a 
score  of  officers  are  taking  their  apertifs.  The  ave- 
nue, stretching  on,  is  bordered  by  cafes  where  the 
"high-life"  of  Tunis  is  spending  a  leisurely  half- 
hour  before  luncheon,  and  suggests,  if  not  a  Capu- 
cines  at  least  a  Poissoniere.  The  shop  windows  are 
carpeted  with  novelties;  the  crowd  under  the  lofty 
arcades  looks  fresh  and  summery.    Smart  traps  dart 

[219] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

by,  with  footmen  in  native  dress;  an  electric  car 
scrapes  round  the  comer  and  suddenly,  to  complete 
this  picture  of  modernity,  an  automobile  comes  crash- 
ing down  the  street  bellowing  its  warning  "toot- 
toot."  In  its  wake — strange  mixture  of  the  Orient 
— a  troop  of  camels,  coal-laden,  slowly  lumbers 
along,  their  drivers  whacking  and  shouting  "Dja! 
Dja!  Barra!" 

After  luncheon  we  stroll  out.  The  air  is  balmy 
and  perfumed  with  the  breath  of  early  spring. 
Arab  flower-venders,  making  the  tour  of  the  cafes 
— lithe,  bare-legged  and  clad  in  a  single  garment, 
the  hoik — balance  upon  their  heads  flat  baskets  filled 
with  jasmine,  carnations,  roses  and  heliotrope. 

As  the  Frenchman  says,  we  smell  our  coff'ee  in 
front  of  a  cafe  by  the  gate  of  Bab-el-Bahr — the 
Water  Gate.  Pouring  out  from  the  Arab  city  come 
the  crowds  of  Islam,  streaming  in  through  the  same 
old  gate  goes  the  civilization  of  the  Occident.  Here 
is  the  fusion-point  of  East  and  West — ^the  mingling 
of  many  races:  French,  Maltese,  Italian  and  Greek 
on  the  one  hand ;  Arab,  Turk,  Touareg,  Bedouin  on 
the  other. 

A  dapper  commis  voyageur  goes  in  through  the 
[220] 


Mosque  of  Sidi-ben-Ziad,  Tunis 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAX. 

gate,  carrying  in  either  hand  a  black  box  bound  in 
brass  whose  very  shape  tells  the  errand  he  is  bent 
upon.  Coming  out  of  the  gate,  a  Mohammedan  is 
weighted  with  all  the  cunning  devices  of  Arab  craft : 
embroidered  slippers,  gaudy  silks,  pipettes,  plaited 
fans,  luck  charms,  hands  of  Fatma  and  tinsel  jew- 
elry. Sturdy  little  African  donkeys  go  by  burdened 
with  baskets  of  yellow  loquats,  their  drivers  beating 
them  and  yelling,  "Arri!  Arri!"  A  team  empties 
out  its  load  of  wealthy  Arabs  and  beggarly  Be- 
douins, each — venerated  Hadj  or  dirty  street 
sweeper — with  a  bunch  of  jasmine  tucked  in  his  tur- 
ban, for  who  in  Tunis  is  not  a  lover  of  the  perfume 
of  fresh  flowers? 

We  pass  under  the  Bab-el-Bahr  into  the  Arab 
city.  Signs  in  Arabic  and  Hebrew  join  the  more 
familiar  Latin  characters  of  French  and  Italian 
words.  Under  the  arcade  of  the  civil  prison,  the 
Bey's  soldiers  stand  guard  in  semi-djarkness.  By 
them  a  group  of  Kybal  women  whine  and  cry  as  they 
watch  one  of  their  number  dragged  into  the  grue- 
some passage,  heavy  chains  clanking  about  her  feet. 

In  the  light  again  we  pause  before  the  Great 
Mosque.    Figures  motionless  as  statues  wrapped  in 

[221] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

white  houmous  lean  lazily  over  its  balustrade ;  on  its 
steps  the  proud  patrician  elbows  the  ragged  pauper. 

As  the  Cathedral  is  the  heart  of  the  French  town, 
so  this  Great  Mosque  is  the  nerve-center  of  the  Arab 
quarter  and  from  it  radiate  the  souks — the  main 
thoroughfares  of  the  Moslems.  Instead  of  broad 
and  airy  streets,  these  souks  are  narrow,  congested 
alleys,  vaulted  with  stone  or  covered  in  with  roughly 
jointed  planks,  but  cool  and  restful.  The  sun's  rays 
filter  here  and  there  through  chinks  and  air-holes 
overhead,  and  play  in  powdery  streaks  upon  a  daz- 
zling array  of  many  colored  fabrics.  On  either  hand 
stand  little  shops  but  six  feet  square,  wherein  squat 
one,  two,  or  even  six  merchants,  surrounded  by  their 
wares :  herbists  'mid  piles  of  henna  and  sweet  smell- 
ing myrrh ;  saddle-makers  in  shops  hung  with  leopard 
skins;  tailors  surrounded  by  a  brave  array  of  em- 
broidered cloths  and  velvets.  Each  souk  has  its  own 
special  trade.  There  is  a  shoemaker's  souk,  the  silk 
weaver's  soukj,  the  souk  where  the  far-famed  Chechia 
or  red  fez  is  made. 

Despite  the  bustle  of  moving  throngs  a  most  un- 
natural quiet  prevails.  No  noise  accompanies  the 
slippered  feet;  the  voices  are  hushed  and  quiet,  al- 

[222] 


Before  the  Great  Mosque,  Tunis 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 

most  whispers ;  no  sounds  of  altercation  or  of  voices 
raised  in  bartering. 

But  on  turning  a  corner  at  the  end  of  the  souks 
a  very  different  scene  confronts  us.  Twenty  or  more 
dellalin  (auctioneers),  are  all  selling  goods  at  once, 
pushing  about  as  is  their  custom  from  bidder  to 
bidder.  The  things  to  be  sold  are  waved  on  high: 
hournous  or  haik,  gandurah  or  embroidered  caftan. 
Here  the  noise  is  deafening.  Then  suddenly,  in  the 
midst  of  this  commotion,  a  silence  falls  upon  the 
crowd  and  a  passage  opens  for  an  old  man,  appar- 
ently demented,  to  stumble  along  carrying  on  high 
the  Bey's  red  flag — a  white  crescent  on  a  field  of 
crimson.  They  tell  me  he  is  a  marabout — a  poor 
religious  fanatic,  but  a  worker  of  miracles,  and  held 
in  great  veneration  among  the  Arabs.  After  he  has 
passed  the  crowd  closes  in  like  the  angry  waters  of 
the  Red  Sea.    .    .    . 

Here  we  are  in  the  Jewel  Market. 

Surely  that  was  Fatma,  reincarnated,  come  back 
to  earth  in  flesh  and  blood,  but  this  time  appearing 
without  her  veil! 

There  she  sat  under  a  snowy  dome,  flooded  in 
iridescent  sunbeams — more  gorgeous  than  the  mis- 

[223] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

tresses  of  Haroun-al-Raschid.  A  lustrous,  golden 
mesh  caught  up  her  dusky  hair  and  framed  the  pale 
oval  of  her  face ;  dark-stained  lids  shaded  her  almond 


r 


f-T  cdmu 


> 


No  noise  accompanies  the  slippered  feet 


eyes  and  her  full  lips  parted  as  she  watched  the  crowd 
about  her.  Rough  pearls,  threaded  on  hoops  of  gold, 
hung  from  her  ears ;  golden  chains,  set  with  rose-cut 

[224] 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 

diamonds,  encircled  her  slender  neck;  pearls  hung 
about  her  shoulders  and  her  waist  was  girt  by  a  belt 
of  gold.  On  her  satin  pantaloons  embroidered  birds 
thrust  up  their  heads  in  song.  Her  hands,  dyed 
deep  with  henna  and  painted,  like  mits,  with  little 
spots  of  brown,  peeped  out,  claw-like,  from  rows  of 
bracelets;  each  finger  sparkled  with  gems. 

She  had  come  from  Algeria  to  attend  the  daily 
sale  of  jewels — ^had  come  with  a  stout  middle-aged 
Algerian  in  European  dress.  The  dellalin  always 
paused  before  the  two  and  thrust  out  their  bony  fin- 
gers gleaming  with  precious  rings.  Then  the  Al- 
gerian would  test  each  stone,  sometimes  giving  a  bid 
but  more  often  dropping  his  glass  to  turn  away  with- 
out so  much  as  a  shrug.  So  the  sale  went  on  until 
the  muezzins'  plaintive  cry  rang  out  at  midday  from 
the  minarets  calling  the  faithful  to  prayer  and  bring- 
ing each  auctioneer  before  his  highest  bidder. 

I  watched  Fatma — vision  of  the  Arabian  Nights 
— mingle  with  the  out-going  tide.  The  golden  mesh 
that  bound  her  hair  glowed  like  a  nimbus  as  a  streak 
of  Hght  fell  full  upon  it  and  then  was  swallowed  in 
dusky  recesses  of  the  souks.  I,  too,  was  swept  along 
by  hurrying  throngs  out  into  the  scorching  beams 

[225] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

of  a  midday  sun,  crude,  pitiless  and  unpoetic,  and 
my  gorgeous  Fatma  seemed  but  the  vision  of  a 
heated  brain. 

Hadj  Mahomet  T sits  in  his  dainty  shop,  a 

living  Buddha,  seated  before  his  gilded  fan.  Hun- 
dreds of  fasceted  golden  vials,  catching  and  reflect- 
ing a  thousand  lights,  shimmering  like  sparks  of  fire, 
frame  the  niche  wherein  he  sits.  Before  him  a  low 
taper  flickers  and  his  pointed  fingers,  busily  engaged 
in  sealing  a  bottle  of  precious  extract,  glow  vermilion 
in  the  candle's  flame.  What  a  young  god  he  looks  in 
his  snowy  houmous^  his  white  turban  wrapped  tight 
about  his  head. 

Hadj  Mahomet  T is  perfumer  to  the  Bey,  an 

aristocrat,  but  a  radical,  departing  from  the  tradi- 
tions of  his  forefathers.  His  wife  and  we  sit  sipping 
coff^ee  on  two  little  benches,  one  on  either  side  of  the 
shop.  But  why  does  his  wife  sit  unashamed,  laugh- 
ing and  chatting,  unveiled  before  him?  Because  she 
is  a  French  woman,  young  and  pretty,  one  of  the 
four  Europeans  who  have  intermarried  with  the 
natives. 

Gracefully  he  anoints  each  of  our  fingers  with  an 
essence  of  exquisite  perfume :  white  rose,  violet,  lilac 

[  226  ] 


Little  shops  but  six  feet  square 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 

and  heliotrope,  and  then  we  start  out  to  visit  his 
cousin. 

We  leave  the  souks  by  the  Kasbah  Gate  in  whose 
shadow  wretched  bundles  of  humanity — mere  piles 
of  rags — lay  huddled  mid  half -naked  creatures  pos- 
sessed by  the  demon,  convulsively  thrusting  out  their 
hands  and  imploring  water  to  quench  their  thirst. 
Across  the  way,  by  low  cafes,  Arabs  lounge  on  mats, 
playing  childish  games  with  dice  and  cards.  Under 
the  leafless  branches  of  a  caroub-tree  squat  bread- 
sellers  with  their  coarse  brown  loaves. 

We  enter  a  street  bordered  by  high  white-washed 
walls,  pierced  here  and  there  by  Moorish  doors 
studded  with  huge  nails  and  painted  pale  rose  or 
faded  green.  On  the  keystone  of  each  arch,  a  luck 
charm,  the  hand  of  Fatma,  wards  oiF  the  evil  eye, 
or  a  black  stone,  misshapen  and  out  of  line,  serves 
the  same  strange  purpose. 

We  pause  before  a  door  such  as  I  have  described, 
though  one  of  noticeable  height  and  elaborate  work- 
manship. Before  it  squats  a  man-servant,  brown 
and  wrinkled  as  a  withered  autumn  leaf.  He  bids 
us  follow  through  a  vestibule  and  tiled  corridor,  then 
leaves  us  at  the  open  door  of  the  patio. 

As  we  stop  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  my  eye 
[227] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

quickly  runs  from  the  court,  with  its  colonnade  of 
twelve  slender  columns  and  its  walls  tiled  in  ara- 
besque of  blue  and  yellow,  to  the  intense  blue  sky  over- 
head.   Under  a  Moorish  arch  a  foimtain  coolly  drips. 

In  a  corner  of  the  court  three  graceful  young 
negresses  are  playing  in  a  low  swing,  chirping  and 
singing  like  a  cage  of  song-birds,  their  bronzed  skins 
shining  with  bluish  lights,  their  slender  necks  and 
arms  encircled  with  chains  and  bracelets,  their  loins 
girt  with  brightly  colored  cloths.  Discovering  our 
companion,  they  swoop  down  upon  her,  like  a  flight 
of  swallows,  with  screams  of  delight,  and,  surround- 
ing her,  they  twine  their  arms  about  her  and  kiss  her 
hands  and  dress,  while  their  eyes  flash  a  thousand 
signs  of  welcome.  Several  elderly  servants  clack 
over  on  their  pattens  to  meet  us,  and  the  young  wife 
herself,  her  head  high,  comes  gracefully  across  the 
court  to  greet  us. 

She  leads  us  into  a  long,  high-ceilinged  room, 
whose  upper  walls,  elaborately  stuccoed,  suggest  the 
magnificence  of  the  Alhambra.  Low  couches  sur- 
round a  niche  decorated  with  gilded  open-work, 
screens  and  gaudy  mirrors.  A  magnificent  wedding 
chest  in  repousse  silver  stands  in  a  corner.    On  high 

[228] 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 

shelves  rare  pieces  of  faience  elbow  the  commonest 
modern  vases  painted  with  poppies  and  impossible 
birds.  Superb  fruits  and  flowers  in  bowls  decorate 
an  ordinary  walnut  table. 


^ 


A  Woman  of  Quality 

"Ah,  'civilization,'  what  incongruities  you  bring 
into  Oriental  life,"  I  thought  as  my  eye  fell  on  the 
plaid  stockings  of  my  hostess  peeping  from  under 
her  richly  embroidered  Turkish  trousers — stockings 
such  as  Parisians  used  to  wear  two  years  ago.    The 

[229] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

day  when  an  Arab  could  detect  a  youthful  female  by 
the  smooth  skin  of  a  shapely  ankle  is  gone  forever; 
fashion  in  the  form  of  checked  stockings  has  killed 
that  coquetry! 

We  were  seated,  as  guests  of  distinction,  on  cane- 
bottomed  chairs,  though  I  should  much  have  pre- 
ferred the  divan  where  our  fair  hostess  sat  cross- 
legged,  holding  one  foot  in  her  hand.  The  old  ser- 
vants brought  in  pipettes  of  coffee. 

"And  have  you  brought  me  your  photographs?" 
was  the  first  unexpected  query.  All  I  could  do  was 
to  promise  to  send  one.  My  engraved  card  meant 
nothing,  since  she  could  neither  read  nor  write.  But 
she  was  happy,  she  said,  in  her  married  life.  Four 
years  ago  she  had  been  brought  to  this  very  room  by 
a  fat  Jewess — always  the  go-between  in  betrothals 
— ^brought  from  her  father's  house  completely  veiled 
and  dressed  in  her  beautiful  wedding  clothes.  At 
the  entrance  door  her  feet  were  washed,  so  that  she 
might  enter  her  husband's  house  free  from  the  dust 
of  the  outside  world.  Here  her  husband  met  her  and 
led  her  in  and  seated  her  upon  a  raised  chair  in  a 
niche. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "just  so.  My  husband  trembled 
greatly,  for  he  had  never  seen  my  face  though  we  had 

[230] 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 

been  betrothed  for  a  year.  He  hesitated  to  lift  the 
heavy  silver  veil  that  hung  about  me,  for  he  feared  a 
disappointment ;  but  suddenly  with  much  emotion  he 
threw  it  back — ^and  he  did  not  seem  disappointed  I 
He  looked  long  into  my  eyes,  then  picked  up  a  glass 
of  sweetened  water  that  stood  prepared  on  a  table  be- 
fore me,  and  he  drank  deeply  of  it  and  passed  it  to 
me  to  drink.  And  that  was  a  token  that  he  loved  me 
and  took  me  for  his  wife.  And  he  covered  my  hands 
and  face  with  kisses  and  I  was  happy,  too.  Then  he 
left  the  house  not  to  return  that  night.  When  our 
friends,  waiting  in  the  patio,  heard  the  good  news, 
they  burst  open  the  doors  and,  surrounding  me, 
shouted  for  joy.  And  then  the  women  undressed 
me  and  carried  me  to  the  great  carved  bed  and  fas- 
tened close  the  silken  curtains,  and  all  night  long 
they  feasted  and  danced  and  made  merry,  as  they  al- 
ways do  at  marriages  and  circumcisions,  while  I  lay 
alone  in  my  dark  curtained  bed  and  listened  to  their 
merriment.  But  I  was  content,  for  I  knew  my  hus- 
band would  break  bread  with  me  on  the  morrow." 

"And,"  added  Madame  T ,  "he  gave  the  fat 

Jewess  a  thousand  francs  for  finding  him  so  beauti- 
ful a  wife." 

"And  your  children,  where  are  they?" 
[231] 


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS 

"Ah,  that  is  the  sorrow,  for  I  have  none ;  but  I  al- 
ways hope." 

Then  Madame  T whispered,  "She  still  goes 

to  the  miraculous  slide,  Sida  Fethalla — a  slide  that 
gives  the  joys  of  motherhood  to  whomsoever  slips 
down  its  steep  incline  prone  upon  the  stomach;  but 
as  yet  the  miracle  has  not  worked." 

Our  pretty  hostess  sighed  and  shook  her  head  and 
said,  "But  at  least  I  am  not  jealous  of  my  husband; 
that  would  be  the  worst  misery.  I  know  some  women 
who  became  so  jealous  of  their  husbands  that  they 
gave  them  potions  that  robbed  them  of  their  man- 
hood." 

She  took  from  her  bosom  a  tiny  silver  box,  inhaled 
a  pinch  of  snufF  and  passed  it  on  to  us. 

"And  I  am  lucky;  no  one  has  ever  cast  on  me  the 
evil  eye.  My  poor  cousin  was  not  so  fortunate;  ill 
luck  and  misfortune  fell  upon  her,  one  thing  after 
another,  until  they  knew  their  house  must  shelter 
some  evil  omen.  So  every  thing  was  moved  into  the 
court — mirrors  and  rugs,  tables  and  beds,  every  stick 
of  furniture  and  every  ornament,  and  at  last  back  of 
a  mirror  high  up  on  a  wall  they  found  a  box  of  por- 
cupine quills !    Was  n't  that  enough  to  bring  ill  luck 

[232] 


IN  THE  BEY'S  CAPITAL 

on  any  house?    After  they  had  burned  the  quills,  all 
went  well." 

Poor  little  ignorant  creature,  I  thought — bird  in 
your  gilded  cage — adorning  yourself  in  silks  and 
jewels,  with  never  a  thought  in  your  empty  brain, 
while  your  husband,  courtly,  well-educated,  hand- 
some, speaking  French  fluently,  enjoys  the  outside 
world.  But  he  scowled  ugly  yesterday  when  I  ex- 
tolled your  beauty  before  one  of  his  friends,  as  ten 
years  hence  he  will  be  scowling  at  mention  of  his 
second  choice.  Then  later  you  will  come  to  look  like 
those  ugly  women,  old  and  pasty,  that  I  saw,  painted 
and  rouged  and  blackened,  but  still  in  silks,  squat- 
ting on  mats  in  your  bare  upper  rooms — old,  de- 
serted Josses ! 


THE  END 


[233] 


/f? 


-UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRARY  FACIUTY 


A     000  674  260     5         | 


til 


^1.:. 


m.-\: 


